


Pathological

by InHisImage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affection, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Angelic Lore, Blood and Gore, Brotherly Love, Claustrophobia, Constructed Reality, Cruelty, Daddy Issues, Dark, Death and Resurrection, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Existential Handjobs?, Explicit Sexual Content, Extreme Breathplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimacy, Lucid Dreaming, Lucifer Feels, Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Lucifer's True Form (Supernatural), M/M, Mental Instability, Mind Games, Moral Ambiguity, Mythology References, Not a Love Story, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Torture, Tragic Romance, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InHisImage/pseuds/InHisImage
Summary: Perhaps though it's all in the past: who Lucifer is and who Sam Winchester is and the how and the why and the why-the-fuck are beside the point. Perhaps it's a new beginning and it's a new era and it's a brave new world. And this is Hell, and it's forever, and be it love or possession or complete and total annihilation, Sam will take what he's given.Or,A detailed account of several days in Lucifer's cage. Not necessarily in chronological order. Mainly centred around the evolving dynamics between enemies with nothing, and no one, but each other. Camaraderie is born of a misery that loves company, but so is depravity. As well as the vulgar and the morbid and the heart-achingly sweet. These are Sam Winchester's top 10 highlights of Hell, the best and the worst of times.(This story takes place in the same universe asThe Devil You Knowbut can be read as a standalone)
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lilith/Lucifer (Supernatural), Lucifer & Michael (Supernatural), Lucifer/Sam Winchester
Comments: 188
Kudos: 131





	1. Rapid Eye Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: This is a "days in the life" sort of story. It has no begining and no ending. Each chapter explores Sam and Lucifer's relationship development at a particular point of time in the cage. All chapters are connected and build on each other or explain each other. But every chapter can also stand on its own. Everything here is meant to fit in canon and address Sam Winchester's Hell trauma and post-cage PTSD.
> 
> There will be no plot in the traditional sense. But expect exposition and fluctuating relationship dynamics, dark themes, interesting conversations, some philosophy, some romance, and the occasional torture porn.
> 
> This is just me exploring how two of my favorite fictional characters can cohabitate together for two centuries. If this is your cup of tea, please enjoy!

It's day thirty-five thousand five hundred eighty-four in Hell. And Sam Winchester made a green bird today.

Made. As in created out of thin air. As in this slightly deformed flying thing, still flickering in and out of existence, wasn't there a minute ago and now it is. Granted, the whole design, including the color, is plagiarized, and, sure, it's a cheap copy of an original and wouldn't win any grand prizes for biological accuracy, but still. Sam made something today and he's buzzing with the accomplishment.

This past century (probably?) in Hell hasn't been a pleasant experience in the slightest. Regardless, every now and then, there is a moment where Sam is genuinely, down to the tiniest fabrics of his very being, happy. It's odd and rather tragic how humans operate in the deepest pit of tribulation. How desensitized one can become to misery that pure joy is at the tip of their fingers if they just allow it. And they allow it. Because why not? Because what is there to lose? Because there is a threshold to suffering after which the mind liberates itself of expectations and fussy judgments. The main catalytic substance for adaptability is giving up. When you give up, you're not picky. When you give up, you're not demanding. When you give up, you take what life gives you and you make lemonade and you enjoy it. And Sam gave up some seven decades ago and it's the best thing that ever happened to him in the cage. Because now, now he can grasp at grains of happiness wherever those may be.

He throws one last glance at the bird and he whispers, exhilarated, "Stay right there, buddy, okay?" And then he's sprinting out of the balcony, leaving the door wide open, and on towards the other locked door on the other side of the room. He knocks a couple of times, trying to school the erratic excitement out of his voice.

"Lucifer, can you come, please? Quickly?"

Lucifer usually does come anywhere between a few minutes and maybe an hour from being called. Sam counts the seconds on his fingers, pacing impatiently to and fro the two doors. The last time he felt this way, the buildup of anticipation barely contained under his skin, he was a child, and his father had just told him he'll be joining their next hunt. He spent hours waiting for Dad and Dean to come pick him up, backpack tight to his chest, muscles vibrating with adrenaline. He was so anxious and he was so happy. It's such an ancient memory now, but it still makes him smile.

The door finally opens and Lucifer steps in. There's curiosity on his face, but it's not alarmed or concerned. Sam knows he knows. He always does. Doesn't make the revelation any less significant.

"Sammy, you're quite flushed."

"Yeah um... If we're doing torture today, can we put it off a bit? I wanna show you something."

Doing torture. Because torture is something they do together. Lucifer smiles almost fondly.

"We're not doing torture today. Show me."

Sam nods, appreciative, and strolls to the open balcony gesturing for him to follow. Lucifer does, the excitement rubbing off on him just a little, softening his expression.

They stand together outside. Sam looks up, chest heaving, and raises a hand to point. The green bird is glitchy but it's still there.

"Do you see this? The ninth bird on the right. Do you see it?"

Lucifer sees it. It's a little abomination that would never survive in nature. It's a broken fading thing with too much wings and too little body mass, and, yet, it's magical. This is creation at its finest. Flawed, ugly, experimental, powerful. Lucifer tilts his head in admiration, warm eyes travelling lower to fix on Sam.

"Trying our hands at being god now, are we? I love it!"

Sam looks so proud, so antsy for his little arts and crafts project to be acknowledged and approved. It's pretty fucking endearing. Lucifer wants to give him just that. It's a charming sentiment to nurture and bask in. You don't get a lot of those in Hell.

"Sammy, I'm very very impressed."

Sam chuckles awkwardly, running a hand in his hair and breathing just a tad bit heavier. Praise, truly earned praise that is, is far and inbetween, but it never fails to make his heart flutter. There's a childish quality to this feeling, and how it washes over him and leaves him wanting. It's unbecoming and vulnerable, and Sam deflects, almost automatically, protectively, to more familiar grounds.

"Thank you uh... I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was trying. I didn't think it'll ever work and I thought you'd know anyway and if you think I should st--"

Lucifer interrupts him, and his tone is firm but compassionate, near educational, "Don't probe for punishment. I understand this is your instinct and your experience, to associate independent free choices with unfavorable consequences. You didn't do anything wrong, and you don't need permission to use your brain to the farthest edges of its capacity."

This is still difficult to fully fathom. The limits of Sam's freedom in captivity. Lucifer endorses free choices to the point of obsession. He might manipulate your entire universe so that your free choice ends up to his liking, true. He might toy with your emotions, manuevor you into a corner where your choice is almost predetermined, sure. But it has to be your choice. It has to come from you, with conviction, logic, desperation, whatever may the motivation or the reasoning be. He doesn't enforce, though he almost always can. Sam has learnt this the hard way. Lucifer doesn't expect much from him, but he expects accountability and agency. Which means Sam's fuckups are his to own up to, as well as his triumphs. Every influence, every hurdle, every meddling on Lucifer's part are real-world training for free will. It's a strange sort of autonomy, and with it comes an even stranger sort of affirmation. Sam never, in his life before this or his life after, felt so utterly and completely accepted for who and what he is.

He breathes out and tries for a smile, "Okay. Got it. Thank you."

Lucifer's eyes dart back up to the bird, "Walk me through how you did it."

And Sam knows this request is primarily for his own benefit. This is a success story that he wants to put into words and release into the sky. He wants to gush about how he made this happen. And Lucifer might set him on fire tomorrow for absolutely no reason other than that of passing time, but, right now, it's incredibly kind that he'd just stand there and listen to Sam's trivial ramblings on materializing a figment of his imagination into this unsightly green semblance of a bird.

"Um, I've been meditating regularly. You know that. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in a memory or an imagined world. And I realize we-- I-- can't sleep here because, in essence, we're already in a manufactured dream that we share together. The room, the balcony, this valley and you and I having physical forms, all products of a lucid dream that you engineered. I've been thinking, for a while now, if I can affect the environment too."

"What triggered this thought process?"

"I don't know. It's been, what, decades, since my body made it out of the cage? I've been feeling less and less tethered to the illusion of my body in the room. When I meditate, I can venture away. My consciousness is technically unrestrained. The only thing holding it down is years and years of being confined to a body and this being the only state of existence my soul knows. It's something I have to unlearn if I want to break free fully. But it's not easy."

"This is an interesting quest, Sammy. Why didn't you ask for help?"

"Because you're an archangel, Lucifer. Our experiences are polar opposites. It would be as challenging for you to understand how it is to have your energy confined to a body as it is for me to understand unshackling mine."

"Hmm."

"So I thought baby steps. If I can manipulate the environment outside my perceived body, it would break the mental barrier. I'd be teaching my consciousness that it exists beyond the illusion of my physical manifestation."

Sam pauses to take a breath, and the faded green of the bird glows just a tad brighter.

"I tried with objects first. I tried to spawn a book into existence. You do it all the time, so I thought it would be simple."

Lucifer would bring books to the room on occasion. Sometimes books Sam had read before but can't really remember; often books he's never laid eyes on in his life. Objectively, Sam understands the available library comprises books he or Nick consumed, in addition to whatever literature Lucifer managed to read on his short stay on Earth.

Lucifer smiles thoughtfully, "That one is a league of its own. Would require full access to memory centres you didn't even know you have. We'll get there someday. I'll help you. Go on."

"When the books didn't work, I tried smaller objects. A pen, a key, an empty glass of water. But creating something out of nothing didn't work either. The image in my head that I tried to materialize was blurry and weak. I couldn't stabilize it long enough to give it proportion. So then I thought I should stick to objects already in the room. I tried changing the color of the bedsheets or the walls."

"Color is an elusive concept."

"Exactly. It wouldn't stick. I'd want to turn the sheets red and after probably hours of straining, I'd end up with a brief warm-ish hue over the bed. And then it's gone. Felt as though I was trying to paint-color every molecule individually and failing."

"So you decided to derive your elements from the environment."

"Yeah. If I had an already made model, I don't need to create mine out of nothing. I can just copy it. So I've been spending most of my time in the balcony staring at your birds. They are so perfect, so detailed, so real. I committed their shapes to memory. I tried to draw them but..."

"I haven't given you a new notebook since you flunked your Ancient Greek writing assignment. This one is on you, buddy."

Sam shakes his head lightheartedly, "Oh shut up, Lucifer. You wanted 3000 words and I had, at most, 400 vocabularies to work with. Of course it sounded like a 5th grader trying to write Aristotle."

This particular incident has no right being brought up so casually. Given that Sam had to nail his own right hand, all 5 fingers, to the table, one by one, and cried and prayed for forgiveness for hours afterwards. But, hey, the fingers are healed and the pain is a distant memory and Sam is miles beyond holding grudges by now.

"Think you earned a new notebook anyway. Just don't dig your own grave and you'll get it next time you ask."

Sam mumbles a "sorry, thank you," almost out of habit, and resumes.

"Yeah, so I studied your birds and this time it was so much easier to focus on materializing a duplicate. It was barely the notion of bird at first. Just the outlines. Then the details, then the animation. Then I looked at the valley and colored the bird green. The hardest part was making it stay. I could make it appear for a flash as I designed it. But it vanishes if I lose concentration for a second. I had to sort of cement its existence in the environment to keep it there. I have no idea how to describe this process. But the more I looked at it and believed it's there, the more I saw it as something that exists among the group of its friends separated from my intrusion, the longer it would stay."

"The active ingredients for creation: faith and sheer inner strength. Who would have thunk?"

Sam hums affirmatively, pondering for a few seconds, eyes on the bird still flying in small loops with the others, "This whole thing reminds me of Tulpas. Dean and I hunted this monster whose fundamental existence relied on people believing it does exist. In their belief, they created him, and the stronger he became the stronger they believed the stronger he became. It makes me wonder if the mind has jurisdiction on the real world too. If it's all a malleable frame that we can mold and shape if we just believe we can. If it's all a lucid dream that G-- your father has engineered for us."

Lucifer licks his lower lip, entertaining the thought. And Sam is wondering if this step-by-step how-to manual is new to him. If the process is not something he ever had to learn or understand. Something embedded in him by design, a birthright of sorts. He all but thinks things into existence here. He snaps and the universe responds to his will outside. It's like explaining to a human how to decipher vision, when all said human has to do is just look.

These fundamental differences in perspective are often brushed off and taken for granted. Sam looks at Lucifer and sees a man. A powerful, cruel, and surprisingly frequently humorous and civil man. Someone angry and bored and disappointed. Someone tender and kind and intelligent. Someone with layers, and complexities, and demons. Just like him. His warden and his friend. And it's ridiculously easy to forget the divinity that lies within him. The boiling rage that could eradicate a civilization, and the unadulterated power that could rebuild one. That the meat suit is nothing but an attempt at translation, at communication, to tone down the magnitude of God's favorite son so that someone like Sam can gaze at him and not burst into ashes on the spot.

Sam relaxes his shoulders and turns to him. He leans back against the balcony railing, facing away from the valley and the birds and the extended view in the horizon, and he feels good. He feels capable. And he's smart enough to know these feelings don't come absent repercussions. And the knowledge is no secret really. Not that any bit of knowledge is ever a secret, or that there are any secrets left between them. Not that the matter that makes him and the matter that makes the Devil haven't been entangled together for a small eternity that they're often one and the same. That when Lucifer hurts him, Sam can both suffer and revel in the pleasure of it. That when Lucifer fucks him, Sam can feel every ounce of violation in his blood, running alongside the intense thrill of absolute possession and ownership.

And Sam doesn't know if Lucifer can feel his feelings too. If the stream that connects them is governed and controlled to fulfill a purpose, or if it flows freely in both directions, or if any of this is the reason they've developed this calm fluid intimacy around each other. The kind you feel towards the darkest bits of your very self, even when you wish them dead and gone.

He watches him for a moment quietly. And it's funny, is it not? That his life before this is merely a fraction of the life he's shared right here with Lucifer. And Sam doesn't know when or how, but the familiarity and the tenderness he feels for him, feels from him, are uncanny. A twisted sort of warmth that he doesn't know what to do with. A warmth that endures through every affliction and every conflict. Constant and unwavering. Sam leans into it and allows himself the indulgence.

"Lucifer?"

"Yes?"

"I want to see you."

Lucifer seems startled by this, but if anything, the unexpected nature of the request appears to amuse him some. He smiles briefly, fingertip pressing against his lower lip. He looks almost contemplative.

"Why?"

Sam doesn't know why, and the urge is not something he can articulate or explain. It's a persistent yearning at the very core of his soul that has been nagging at him for years now. A raw primal need, irrational and deprived, like a moth drawn to the light. Blind and suicidal and wanting. Sam doesn't think himself worthy. And it breaks his heart that he'll plead his case anyway.

"I want to see past the vessel, uh-- the illusion of the vessel, Nick, whatever. I want to see _you._ "

"No."

"I can handle it."

"Not yet."

"I won't disintegrate, Lucifer. We make our own environment, don't we? If you want me to survive it, I will. I want to see you. Please."

Lucifer rolls his head back, his shoulders shaking slightly with a soft chuckle. It's affectionate and just a little patronizing, "Always itching for more devastation, Sammy. Not sure if it's curiosity that will kill you or masochism. My favorite little martyr."

Sam furrows his brows. Devastation is his sanctuary. He'd bathed in it and soaked in the bloody aftermath. It's a core part of his identity in the cage. And Lucifer ripped him into pieces and rebuilt him anew more times than he can count. What's one more if he gets to see? To know. To peek behind the curtain and understand the goddamned Devil.

And there isn't much that offends Sam anymore but this one most certainly stings. To cohabitate with Lucifer is to embrace one's very own carnage. To accept it and live through it. Sam has been deriving some sick sense of fulfillment out of surviving alone. He's not sure if that too is an original individual emotion, that it is his to claim untainted with the near-manic destructive nature of Lucifer's feelings. Or if he's just filled with want for self-annihilation, because that's all he knows now. That's how Lucifer loves and hates him. That's how Lucifer fucks and breaks him. And that's how he, always, always, makes him whole again.

"Does it worry you, Lucifer, that I may get good at this, make my own world, rebel against you like you rebelled against your father?"

And the question is slow, enunciated, provocative, defiant. Sam calculated every word and uttered it with intent. Because he's hurt, and he wants to hurt him too. He was just told to not dig his own grave but he just can't help it.

Lucifer quirks his head to the right and blinks once. Eyes icy cold and blue, piercing. Lips parting with the smallest hint of a smile. Sam recognizes the expression all too well. It's entirely blank and empty and it's the most terrifying thing in his little universe. This is the face that'll plague his nightmares if he ever gets out of here or sleeps again. This is the face that makes him hold his breath and scratch at his flesh and freeze in place listening to his own heart _thump, thump, thump,_ behind his ears. And because it's insane, because Sam is the embodiment of duality, because, at every given moment, he wants to die and also cling to life tooth and nail, this tyrannical all consuming terror is exactly what he needs, craves almost, to feel real, present, alive, worthy.

But the Devil only gives on his own terms.

Lucifer's eyes part Sam and move up to the sky. He purses his lips to whistle, a melodic brief thing, and the little green bird, as if enchanted, breaks the looping circle of its flock and flies straight down to the balcony. Lucifer pulls one hand up and the bird lands, unceremoniously, on his index finger. The little head bobs left and right curiously. Sam is transfixed with how tangible his creation has become. A living breathing true-to-life tiny creature. So fragile, so beautiful. Sam's heart sinks.

"Don't!" He manages to whisper, pleading. The glint of retaliatory insolence, bold and bright just a second ago, fades into defeated acknowledgment. Every time, every single time, Sam expects 10 different ways in which Lucifer can crush him. And there's always an 11th sneaking up on him like a kick in the gut, reminding him to stick to his lane and know his place.

And this is not about the bird. Or how easily, effortlessly, instantaneously, Lucifer can squeeze the life out of it right now. It's what it symbolizes, and the months Sam has put into spawning it into being, how it's, more or less, his baby, the single materialized representation of a world beyond the walls of the little claustrophobic prison Sam has called home for the better part of a century. And he shouldn't be trembling, his eyes shouldn't be watering over this artificial animation of a bird that never really existed. But he is. He is.

Lucifer cooes at the bird; it responds with sharp chipper noises, flapping its wings as though in a ritualistic dance. Sam can't take his eyes off of the impending debacle.

"Please." He forces the words past the lump in his throat, "Please?"

With two fingers of the other hand, Lucifer caresses the bird's head slowly. Something about how careful the touch is is menacing. And Sam chews on the inside of his cheeks, a tremendous effort to curb the anxious compelling need to protect and guard. A vacant gaze travels back up to him.

"I'm not going to snuff your creative freedom because I'm not him. And you're going to be a good boy for me because you're not me. Do you understand?"

Sam nods with frantic urgency, "I didn't mean t--"

"You did mean to. Tell me you understand."

"I understand. I do. I'm sorry."

Lucifer stares at him placidly, letting the apology simmer for a few seconds longer, and then he gently flicks his hand and the bird flies away, promptly rejoining its friends.

"Your world, and what you get to make of it, is whatever I want it to be. Don't get cocky, Sammy."

Sam nods again, wetting his dry lips, catching his breath. With the green bird chirping in his peripheral vision, he murmurs, heart heavy with genuine gratitude, "Thank you."

He hasn't the slightest idea why he still plays this game when it always ends the same way. Sometimes, though, in the parts of him that seek to appease, he thinks Lucifer might appreciate the effort.

Swiftly, Lucifer is upon him, too close, too imposing. Sam recoils further back against the railing, but he doesn't attempt to escape the trapment. They lock eyes.

"You want to see me, huh?"

Sam is stunned silent. Body stiff save for a slight tremble. He doesn't look away because he knows he shouldn't. He doesn't say anything because he knows he doesn't need to.

And then Lucifer leans onto him, lower body pressed flat against Sam's, face merely inches away. This level of proximity is nothing new and Sam can feel the familiar chill progressively seeping into his skin. Red flashes blazing in the pupils fixed on him. And there's a finger on his lips now, tapping rhythmically. His chest rises and falls in tandem. And Lucifer's words come out fervent, tempting, in sync.

"I want you to make mountains. Oceans. Towers that pierce the sky. Make fleets of birds and prides of lions. Make a fucking mammoth, Sammy. Make your own Dean, your own Jessica. Be your own God."

There's light flowing in abundance beneath Lucifer's skin. The vessel can't contain it, cracking to set it free. It's so sudden, too bright, too overwhelming. Sam screws his eyes shut reflexively and he pants, lungs deflating, air such a precious commodity he can't get enough of. And nothing about this is gradual. He's fevered, on fire, burning cold, and it hurts, it aches all over. And it's blissful, glorious, so incredibly profound he could cry. The tears slip past warm eyelids and stream down unhampered. There's power teasing at the tips of his lips that he's never felt the likes of before. It's electric and blinding. And he wants it, wants it inside him, wants to taste it and drink it all up and burst with it. It's unfathomable how much he _wants._ To snap his eyes wide open and catch a glimpse. To see, to know, to savor. But he can't. It's pulling at the strings that hold him together with such vigor it's devastating. Shredding them, splitting him, fragmenting him. He can't handle it. He can't. Too much. Too fucking much.

Lucifer's voice comes from a distance, almost an echo; it surrounds him and wraps him up. Sam can feel the waves of it vibrating against his very being. He weeps inaudibly. Elated, wrecked, intoxicated, more than the sum of his parts and yet a pile of flaming debris.

"Create your own little world, Sammy. Paint your Sun black. Smash the locked door of your little room and come find me. Then, when you're more than human, when it won't shatter you to the molecular level and fry your sanity, when you're worthy and deserving, _then I'll let you see me_."

The light dies out in a flash and Sam collapses in Lucifer's arms, face buried in the crook of his neck. Spent, skin burnt and itching, barely a ragged breath out of him. And somehow, through the delirium and the mania, the ghost of a smile remains on chapped lips. And for the first time in a goddamn century, Lucifer wills him to sleep.

Sam dreams of nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if you have thoughts, questions, or criticism to share, I'll appreciate it forever. Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Dealer's Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit content.

It's day one thousand in Hell. And Sam Winchester is still too bitter to let it go.

The time it took him to even cultivate a full understanding of how his body was snatched out of the cage, leaving his soul here to rot, is already embarrassingly long. Add to that a period that followed where he pushed through the crushing disappointment and allowed himself wishful thinking. Surely someone outside (come on, Dean) would realize what they actually got out is but an empty shell. Surely Rescue Operation 2.0 is on the way. Surely that wasn't his one and only get-out-of-jail free card and he just wasted it because he's just so fucking stupid. No. He'll hold out on that hope because if he doesn't, if he doesn't, the grievance and the resentment and the defeat will eat up on him until nothing is left to salvage.

Turns out Sam is a lot sturdier than he gave himself credit for. Because the hope came and went. And Lucifer gave him time to mourn what could have been, and then some more time to be angry. And Sam hated his fucking guts but even as he did, he couldn't help but appreciate the space. Nonetheless, he might have leaned into that tolerance a little too much. Took it for granted, took advantage.

The constant acridity at the back of his throat left him belligerent, spiteful, aggravating. Lucifer let it pass one, two, three, seventeen times. Until today. Today struck the wrong nerve.

"Yeah, Lucifer, no. None of this makes sense. I mean, the host of daddy issues is familiar to a T. I get it. But we keep coming back to the same crossroad. None of this absolves you, and the sheer narcissism, god, to think the entire universe owes you an apology is just absurd."

They were discussing the problem of evil, and the thing about arguing philosophy with the actual Devil is, everything is personal. Sam knows this is a landmine he should steer away from or tread very, very carefully. But he also doesn't give a fuck, so he carries on.

"No wonder it's pride that got you here in the first place."

Something about Lucifer's expression changes. He didn't seem to mind the original argument, was going to respond with a rebuttal just as they always do. But the last statement gives him pause. He stares at Sam blankly.

"Pride?"

"If you can't recognize your superiority complex, then I have news for you, buddy."

"Not my question, Sam. You think Dad cast me out of Heaven and locked me up here because I was _prideful_?"

"Isn't that your original sin, Lucifer? The tipping point that threw you out of God's favor? The jealousy, the corruption, the destruction, all side effects of this one moment where you couldn't just swallow your pride and accept that something, anything, could be loved more than you."

Lucifer hums quietly. His eyes bounce off Sam and wander away and around the room, middle finger tracing a straight line, up and down, across the surface of the wooden table his arm is resting on. There's an interrupted scoff on the corners of his lips. He looks distracted, almost distraught, and the sentiment feels alien to Sam. He can't read or decipher it. It's unsettling.

The silence lingers, stretched to its capacity, verging on unbearable. Sam fumbles with a stray fabric thread in the bedsheet beneath him, rolls it around a knuckle and pulls tight. He's nervous, stomach churning with the tension. He repeats every word he just spouted in his head, overanalyzing the gravity and the implications and what might have been misinterpreted. He keeps an apprehensive gaze, fixed rather obsessively, on the man on the chair, waiting for the snap that'll slam him against the wall or crush bones he didn't know he had. Waiting, waiting. The stillness is heavy and charged, and he doesn't understand, can't hazard a guess as to why this, out of a hundred other accusations he's casually thrown in Lucifer's face before, could trigger such a reaction.

Finally, too tense to withstand the onslaught of nothing, Sam speaks, careful and slow, "Lucifer... Did I offend you?"

"Offend me? No."

"Are you going to hurt me now?"

"Probably, but not because I'm offended. Come."

Sam drags himself off the bed. The motion is drawn out and reluctant, but he does go to him. He stands barely a foot away, expectant and anxious. And it's not like Lucifer ever needs a reason to hurt him, but the few times Sam instigates it always come with a side dish of self-flagellation that weighs heavier on his chest. He tries to dismiss the thought and just be.

Lucifer scans him for a brief moment, head to toe, and then, "Take everything off."

So it's either fucking or the torture will include genitals. If given the choice, which happens on occasion but Sam doubts he'll be so lucky today, he'll pick being fucked any day of the week. At worst, the pain is manageable. At best, it's just a strategic poke at parts of him that still cling to any notion of bodily autonomy. Sam can't wait for the fateful moment when he's inevitably too desensitized for the humiliation to sting anymore.

He pulls his clothes off with automatic numbness, piece by piece. The nudity used to irk him at some point. Hasn't for a while. He hands the folded pile to Lucifer and exhales.

"We should discuss a new wardrobe when we're done. When was the last time we made you a new shirt, Sammy?"

Sam huffs a sharp chuckle, "Not sure. Somewhere between the waterboarding and that one time we played Chess."

"Ahh. Not that long ago then. Get on all fours."

Sam lowers himself down to hands and knees. And he can normalize the nakedness; hell, he can zone out the defilement, but this? This he still hates with ferocity that could burn down entire villages.

"Right. Face on the floor and hands behind your back. Keep your eyes on me."

Sam grits his teeth and chews on his lower lip for a second. And then he does what he's told, balances his upper body weight on forehead first, and then cheek, flat against the floor, pulling his arms up and backwards to clasp them behind his back.

Lucifer scooches to the edge of his chair, leaning over him. He wraps fingers around Sam's left wrist and moves it several inches up along the spinal cord, bending the arm at the elbow. Right hand gets the same treatment until both forearms are pressed together parallel to each other. The little limb maneuvering is gentle and painless. Sam even gets an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder.

"Hurts?"

Other than the mild strain on his neck and the razor-sharp bite of how fucking degrading this is, "No."

"Good. Hold it."

Sam nods and holds position. The civil nature of the interaction is not exactly unusual. But something still feels off and he can't quite place it. Lucifer would typically alternate between light, playful, conversational and just plain vicious. And Sam can't always predict which version of the Devil he'll end up with today, but, one thing is for certain, today's version is new. It's not the demeanor or the tone or the way he touches him as if they were lovers, as if this was consensual. It's not even the hint of softness in his eyes. Perhaps it's the air of the room. Perhaps it's a disturbance in Lucifer's energy that dribbles into Sam's soul and taints its perception. Sam is both fascinated and terrified by the prospect.

"I haven't been very attentive to your cock. Have I, Sam?"

Two fingers dig below the small of Sam's back. He arches his spine in response, compliant and co-operative and filled to the brim with dread, forcing his ass a few inches up. The cock of which Lucifer speaks comes in view, tucked between Sam's thighs, soft and uninterested.

Sam hisses a no, swallows the urge to proclaim that he'd very much rather that status quo be maintained.

"You're very tense. Breathe. We'll only play a little."

Sam can't breathe really. Because whatever is in the cards for him right now, it incorporates 'play' _and_ his penis, and the last time an episode of torture starred those two, it also featured needles and a blowtorch and pain, oh god, so much pain. Sam draws his thighs closer, instinctively, frantically, at the phantom agony between his legs. The quivering is pitiful.

Lucifer seems to almost identify the memory off of the distress on Sam's face alone. He chuckles briefly, fond and sympathetic, as if the impending panic attack at his feet is the most endearing thing in the world. And when he speaks, his tone genuinely aims to reassure and ground, "No no, nothing like that. Easy now. Look at me, Sammy."

Sam looks up at him, chest wheezing. Somehow he still manages to hold position.

"Do I look like I want you to be scared?"

"N-no..."

"Then why are you?"

As illogical as this question may sound to an outsider, it makes absolute sense to Sam. And in a roundabout way, it is calming. It's factual and it's set in stone and it's a constant he can grip on when unwarranted anxiety and terror drift him away. He inhales deeply and centres himself.

"Sorry."

"No worries, buddy. Now, Sammy, you remember when you came for me, don't you?"

"Came?"

Lucifer makes a jerking-off motion with one hand, brow risen suggestively. Sam's face goes crimson.

Of course he remembers. How could he not when, since day one in the cage, this was the solitary time his dick functioned like a dick should?

As with hunger and thirst and sleep, Sam does not have an iota of sexual desire in Hell. This tidbit remained buried for the longest time due to the fact that nothing about his situation was ever even remotely sexually stimulating. And then the ongoing misery became an everyday norm and he started to wonder, and to try, and to fail. Technically, he could objectively recognize a fantasy that used to get him off, and can even indulge the thought and enjoy it for a minute. But his body is unresponsive, cold, indifferent. He tried a few times before that one time with Lucifer, and then a few times after. Hours of stroking didn't get the job done. Couldn't even get hard. It was frustrating, maddening at a point, but also a relief of sorts. He had much worse things to worry about; morning erections, or the lack thereof, didn't even make the list.

One thing was made clear through yet another traumatic experience: whatever button that stayed switched off on his libido could be turned on in an instant if Lucifer so wills it. The one time he masturbated himself to orgasm for Lucifer, when the latter commanded a show and a demonstration, the rush, the want, the toe-curling pleasure came back with vengeance. The mere permission sprung life into his groin. It took Sam a while, and an unhealthy measure of situational awareness, to make peace with this one.

It did help somewhat that while this leverage persisted in the background, it was never abused. When Lucifer fucked him, no attention or thought was ever given to his dick. The penetration was just another form of torture, more psychological than physical really. But it was never dressed as something that it isn't. Sam knew Lucifer could have raped him and made him like it. Could have played a game where Sam's biology is used against him, where he is an unwitting accomplice in his own violation. But he didn't. The wounds the first few times left were brutal, but they were also clean. A crude, but honest, display of "I own you." Plain and simple. No manipulation. And he may have been made to ask for it out of self-preservation and with desperation and indignity that still dig red-hot daggers at his chest, but he was never made to _want_ it. Sam actually appreciated the integrity.

"Yes." He replies finally, cautiously.

"I don't want you to cum today."

And then there's a hand between his legs, cupping the soft member gently first, and then a little firmly. Sam is so used to the lack of nerval response in the area, it's startling when the slight pressure makes him tingle. His eyes widen.

How long has it been since? He's not sure. So long he could have sworn he's forgotten the feeling. But his body remembers. It's a muscle memory, and somewhere in his consciousness an old pattern is recognized and a phoenix rises. The touch is so fucking pleasant. His skin is starved for it.

But wait...

Maybe he's held Lucifer to a moral standard that he doesn't really deserve. Maybe all the Lightbringer needed was a little provocation to lay aside his big talk on free will and agency and just play dirty. It's low, and vulgar, and cheap, and Sam is more disgusted by the premise than he is by the intrusive hand on his cock.

"What's the point of this, Lucifer?"

And Sam doesn't expect honesty, or even an actual answer to his question that isn't trivializing or cryptic or just outright dismissive. What he gets is much more.

Lucifer's hand stills. He's quiet for a moment, blank, indecipherable, and then he smiles, and there's a tinge of bitterness there that lingers.

"The point is, I don't want you to cum, Sam. If you do, I'm going to hurt you. Bad. And you don't want to cum either. You don't want to because every fiber of your being wants to reject this, to resist the darkness, to not give in. Because you'd be betraying your very identity, because believe it or not, you don't wanna lose my favor."

Sam clenches his jaw and wills himself to focus on the words, to ignore the stable cold weight engulfing his cock and sending jolts of electricity straight to his lower abdomen. He breathes. He listens.

Lucifer is not close to done.

"So I'm going to demean you, Sammy, and, because I know you too well, push all your right buttons. I'm going to dangle my approval right above your head and tell you to not move an inch. And this part of you, something in your programming, something intrinsic and tyrannical, will want to flip me off and just give in and embrace the fall. Because this is who you are and this is what I'm making you, and the fight or the test or the eternal quest to please me is just too exhausting, too futile..."

And for a few seconds, Sam is staring at him, dumbfounded. Because he doesn't understand, and the words might bear relevance to the current situation, but they also really really don't. But then it downs on him and shakes him to the core.

Lucifer's spitting the words. There's heaviness there and there's a burden. He sounds livid and he sounds vulnerable. Because this is too personal, and it's far beyond Sam's little conflict. This is an old gashing wound and Lucifer is scratching at it with abandon and he's never been more honest, or more open, or more bare. Sam's chest tightens.

"Is it pride then, Sammy, when you disobey? Is it rebellion?"

"Uh..."

"See, kiddo, this isn't punishment. I have no interest in censoring what you say or what you think. This is a reenactment. _I want you_ to prove me wrong. I want you to fight your nature, and your programming, and my mind games and ultimately show me..."

His hand resumes motion. Steady and slow and rhythmic. The blood rushes down to forgotten territories and Sam can feel himself harden. It feels good and it feels damning. His heart _thud, thud, thuds._

"That you, Man, possess virtue that I don't..."

And Sam wants to fight what he knows is inevitable. He wants to curb the need and the longing and the raw primal crescendo at the basest parts of him. But he also wants to just let it happen, to just let himself be, just be, just be, just be.

"That I should have swallowed my pride and bowed to you..."

His cock swells against better judgment. Because his body doesn't care; it does what bodies do. Animal brain succumbing to eons of evolutionary biology. It wants to be touched, it wants to slip into a hole and _fuck, fuck, fuck_. It wants the escalation and the mind-numbing bliss and the eventual climax. A survival agenda that every breathing creature on Earth owes its very existence to. How can Sam fight it?

"That you're good, powerful, incorruptible, better than me..."

And maybe Sam could have had a fighting chance if meddling hands weren't so skillful, purposeful, determined. If the tight pressure wasn't just right and the velocity wasn't so precise and perfect and his cock had the slightest idea of what is at stake here. Because this is not intimate, or sexual, and it has no right feeling this good. This is mechanical entrapment and Sam is panting and sinking nails in his own back and he's falling, falling.

"That you're worthy of the divine love I thought I deserve..."

Tears well in his eyes, and when he looks at Lucifer, face flushed and gaze wild, there are tears there too. Sam wants to get the fuck up and run. But this game is rigged and they're both losing and it's heartbreaking and Sam seethes with the weight of the impending failure. His entire body is hot. Sweat gathers on forehead and palms and his cock is slick with precum and the pleasure leaves no room for argument. The buildup is incessant and it'll soon demand release and Sam doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Because if you don't prove me wrong, Sammy, then we're just the same. And my father just threw me in a cage for a fucking eternity for being what I am and what he made of me. And it's not fair."

And it's odd and utterly irrational, but Lucifer's words pierce through him and there's suffering there that Sam can't fathom or bear. Millenia of repressed rejection and abandonment, with no outlet and no reprieve, stick to every syllable like tar. And Sam gets it; he gets it now. He feels contaminated and blistering with rage. Not his feelings, and yet he burns with them. His cock burns with them.

"Please!"

"I'll promise you one thing. No cage magic, no archangel reality-bending physiology. This does not feel better or worse than it naturally would. And I won't blame you, Sam."

Fear and consequences should be deterrent enough. They are not. You don't push a button that says "Explode" and expect it to do anything but. Sam is banging his head against the floor and ripping his lower lip open with his teeth and he's also thrusting against Lucifer's hand and groaning and whimpering with such hectic desperation.

It doesn't just feel good; it feels compromising. His mental capacities are impaired. His vision is blurry. There's tension between his legs that intensifies at an exponential rate and, at a point, it's the only thing in the world. Sam wants, tries, strains, to distract himself from it, but it's all encompassing, relentless; it doesn't yield and it doesn't weaken.

And to give credit where credit is due, Sam puts his all into the fight. He uses every trick in the book. He tries to block the feeling, to zone himself out, to shred the skin on his forearms bloody. He clings to pain as if a life raft and prays the waves won't take him. But it's not enough. It's not enough and he's drowning. And it feels heavenly he wants to sink in and choke on it. He looks feral, he looks demented, and then he looks resigned.

It fills him up and bursts out of him.

Sam screams his throat dry against the floor, chest rising and ebbing in a frenzy, body convulsing with ecstacy. Electricity courses through him and, for a moment, every nerve-ending is exhilarated. He's shaking and he's drenched in sweat and the euphoria is a drug that overshadows everything else and consumes him. The relief is brief and probably not worth it, but goddamn if it isn't unparalleled.

It lasts 30 seconds at most, and then it's over. And Sam was so fucking high, the fall is immediate and crushing. And he was just trembling with pleasure but now a hysterical, uncontrollable crying fit grabs a hold of him and doesn't let go. His eyes are squeezed shut and the anguish in his heart is brutal and he's rambling, low and fretful and dripping with turmoil.

"I'm sorry I failed you, I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I couldn't see it. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."

And Lucifer is on his knees beside him in a flash, pulling him up with incredible ease, wrapping arms around him with frantic tenderness, shushing, whispering, "No, no, no, Sammy. Stop apologizing. I don't blame you. I don't. I promise."

"I'm so fucking sorry."

"No, Sam. You are what you are and I am what I am. And I accept you. I accept you, unconditionally. I'll never ask you to be what you're not. I'll never punish you for what you are. Do you understand?"

And Sam is naked and small and his entire universe just shattered and left him flayed. The cum on his softening cock hasn't dried yet but the shame dissipates faster. And there's warmth in the embrace that engulfs him and keeps him together. He buries a wet face in Lucifer's chest and sobs softly, sniffles, tastes the tears and the sweat and the catharsis that comes with acceptance given so freely.

"I don't know. I can't think. I believe you."

"Good enough for me, Sammy. You've always been good enough for me."

There's particular sorrow to this kindness, exclusive and without equal and only they can share. It's melancholic, patient, invigorating, overwhelming. And Sam has been baited, lured, and played for a sucker too many times to take anything at face value. But whatever it is that is happening right now, it feels authentic and it feels real, inviting and therapeutic. The air is calm and sweet, and the strong arms tight around him are gentle and liberating. Sam is not too far gone to think the Devil absolved, and yet a torrent of forgiveness tugs at his heart and a festering hostility melts.

"Lucifer... I think I can feel things off of you, off of your grace."

"Hmm. How does that feel like?"

Sam thinks for a moment, trying to translate an emotion that goes miles above his head and simultaneously resides so deep within him it's almost his very own.

"Like a reconciliation. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very challenging to write. I really hope the development and the pace feel organic and realistic. If you have any thoughts, questions, or criticism to share, it's always welcomed and appreciated. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Earthly Delights

It's day nine thousand eight hundred ninety-seven in Hell. And Sam Winchester's stay in the cage has just officially outlasted his entire life on Earth.

Now Sam doesn't know this, and Lucifer neither follows a construct of time that recognizes days, nor does he operate in a system that demands measurements. So whether the aforementioned mathematical comparison is cause for celebration or grief, it's lost on both of them. And today has nothing to do with it.

"I have something for you. A gift of sorts."

Sam hasn't been especially well-behaved as of late. Hasn't been particularly engaging or exceptionally insightful or even a tad bit more entertaining than usual. So he registers Lucifer's words with practiced caution and a whole pack of salt. He most definitely hasn't earned any "gifts." And favorable choices of terminology haven't always stuck to their favorable associations. Sam has taught himself to expect the absolute worst and is thus occasionally pleasantly surprised.

Lucifer had surged into the room barely a minute ago, took firm hold of Sam's good hand and led them both to the balcony. The latter picks a corner and situates himself there, pondering on whether to ask or just wait and see. Asking sounds more polite, so he goes with that.

"The good kind of gift?"

"Ahh, I might be bringing a Trojan horse to your very backyard, but, yes, Sammy, the good kind."

Cryptic, okay, but there's affability there that is quite reassuring. Sam lets himself hope.

"Are you going to finally heal my arm?"

The arm in question has been absolutely destroyed a few weeks ago, and is now tucked uselessly in a DIY sling made entirely out of torn flannel, wrapped loosely all the way around Sam's shoulder. Lucifer had ignored to fix it for no valid reason whatsoever and the topic was approached frequently and dismissed just as often.

He throws a brief glance at the bandaged limb and then, nonchalantly, eyes dart away and up to the sky, "No. Better. Or at least I think you'll enjoy it better. Let me know when it's over if you'd have prefered a functional arm. Are you ready?"

Sam purses his lips and mutters with a level of passive aggression that's too toned down to count, "Born ready. Hit me."

Lucifer gives him a nod of acknowledgment and snaps his fingers. And Sam would never get used to the unnatural speed with which the environment in the cage responds to Lucifer's bidding. Because, in a blink, the valley, the sun, the birds, and the green, extending miles into the horizon, implode into an explosion of colors, only to smoothly reshape themselves, morphing into something other.

Sam's lips part involuntarily as the picture before his eyes rearranges itself, kaleidoscopic in nature at first, but then gradually settling into scenery his eyes can decipher.

Midday sun shines bright and hot straight into the balcony. Sam slams a hand against his forehead reflexively, trying to shield his eyes from the sudden assault of light and heat. The noise pierces his ears first, and then the awareness of a drastic change in temperature strikes him. His senses are overloaded and confused. And he pulls back, instinctively drawing closer to Lucifer.

There's dust in the air, teasing at the edges of his nostrils. He can smell sand, and sweat, and something else familiar and nostalgic that he can't pinpoint right away.

Humans. He can smell humans. One wouldn't think a crowd of people would smell like anything special, but Sam has just spent a quarter of a century in a make-believe room with a physical manifestation of an angel that never smelled like anything. So he knows. He can tell the difference.

The sounds...

He snaps his eyes open. Still hurts. He squints.

The sounds are loud cheering in a language he doesn't recognize. Very human. Noisy and overlapping and overzealous.

Human. Human. Human. He hasn't seen another human since...

Vision is slowly yielding to translation. And Sam's heart is hammering in his chest. Almost painful. And yet, and yet it's overjoyed. His brain hasn't fully processed the visual input, but it doesn't fucking need to. Because it knows, it understands. On some basic level of perception, Sam knows he's in the presence of a crowd of his own kind. The sweet stench of jammed bodies, huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, in a hot Summer day.

He inches towards the balcony railing and leans flat against it, blinking tears of excitement away, inhaling deeply.

Below him and before him and in front of him. People. So many of them. They gather in lined up groups around a spacious half circle. And they're thrilled and impatient... and ancient.

The loose gowns suggest poverty. But, no. Somewhere on his north east, there are dozens in overflowing linen tunics and those, those look wealthy and powerful and...

Too much. Sam pulls back and reaches for Lucifer. Fingers clasping onto his shirt. He heaves a breath. It catches in his throat.

"What is-- I--"

"You're overwhelmed. Give it a minute."

Sam nods frantically, gaze fixed on the flooring of the balcony as he works through a breathing exercise he's been practicing almost religiously to keep the anxiety at bay. He keeps at it until it works. Until the pounding in his head is bearable and Lucifer is mouthing "That's a good boy," against his ear and he thinks he can look again.

He does. And there's a man marching towards the center of the circle and speaking now. Loud and clear and sensational. It sounds like advertisement. The crowd remains silent to listen. And Sam can't understand but the gist is obvious. Something, someone, is being introduced.

This is an entertainment event. An ancient one at that. The level of organization and the landscape in the far faded background indicate order and civilization. The type of clothing hints at Greek or Roman. The eight tall and very sculpted men taking assigned spots on a straight line and bending over at the waist, prepared and ready to start bolting, signifies competitive racing.

The sheer volume of the crowd implies something historical, remarkable, significant.

Sam holds his breath when a loud thud declares it's game on and the men start sprinting. He clenches his fist around the fabric of Lucifer's shirt when the hysterical masses start hollering their respective passions into the sky. He starts chuckling when his brain picks up on patterns of names being screamed at the top of very invested lungs. The cheering is exhilarating, and there's giddiness in Sam that is so childish and so refreshing he can't believe he still has it in him.

"Lucifer, um... This is the fucking Olympics?"

"The very first."

"You son of a bitch! Thank you!"

The gratitude is electric and breezy and uttered with such ease it's almost inappropriate. And for a moment there, Sam looks so carefree, so fascinated, buzzing with energy and contentment. At his very core, he can recognize the privilege of being right here, watching the first games in history live from the balcony of his own room. And he's grateful, so thoroughly gratified, and the experience is immersive and mesmerizing and he's not above wearing the glee right on his sleeve.

Lucifer watches him quietly, a small smile itched half permanently on his face.

"Wanna bet on the winner, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes narrow in focused consideration, and he doesn't take them off of the track, "What do I get if I win?"

"You get one veto-power free card."

An actual consequence-free choice to say no? This must be fucking Christmas.

"Sold. Blonde guy on third place. Can you see how he can go so much faster and has been holding back just enough to appear unthreatening?"

"So you're going for strategic over obvious. Well then, bet placed."

And Sam might be only 80% sure of his intuition, but the 20% possibility of losing is not exactly something that concerns either of them. What does Sam get if he loses? The mere entertainment of the question rings a little funny. Sam has nothing to give, and it's not like there is a limitation on what can be done to him, or taken from him, in regular circumstances to worry about these conditions being worsened. Such instances where the same conclusion is drawn or mutual agreements are reached without need for discussion or argument are pleasant in a way. There's plain honesty in that line of communication and both parties have grown to appreciate how effortless it is.

In all cases, Sam does end up being right. Blonde guy on third place makes it to second and then to first 15 feet before the finish line. Sam slaps his own thigh in the exuberance of the moment. The intense nail-biting tension of the last few seconds trickling off of him in short bursts of laughter, leaving his cheeks red and his eyes glowing.

"Did I just win the grand prize of the century?"

"You just won the grand prize of the century."

Down there the crowds are going nuts. Several men, and a few women, are launching at the Olympic champion to wrap him in arms and celebrations. There's pure undiluted joy to the moment that brings tears to Sam's eyes and he's shaking his head in disbelief, because no matter how ridiculous it may sound, it does feel a tiny bit like the emotional frenzied masses are cheering for _him_.

Lucifer flicks a finger and the scene stills and dissipates into white. The transition is too sudden it startles Sam briefly. He exhales and runs fingers in his hair, smile still lingering on his lips.

"That was... incredible. Thank you!"

Fun. Sam had no idea how much he missed it.

"You get two more and you get to select them at will. I feel generous today."

What Lucifer doesn't say is, there's a certain charm to happiness that he himself has never experienced or understood. It's a curious thing that eludes him: the utter simplicity of the emotion. Lucifer cannot comprehend what is it exactly that would entice joy in a human watching a sporting event? There's no stake and no personal gain for the average viewer, and the victory remains separate and impersonal. The entertainment value itself is ambiguous.

Sam, on the other hand, looks a little bewildered. Gratefulness gives way to perplexity and this is too good to be true. The novelty of the sentiment is alarming.

"Two more of what... Uh...? Anything?"

"Anything."

"Lucifer, how am I even seeing this? Was that a visualization or an authentic memory?"

"Actual excerpt from the past. I did not direct you a movie"

"How? You weren't on Earth in, what, 600 BC? How did you witness this?"

"Time isn't a linear straight line for me, Sam. That's not how I experience Earth. You know that."

"I think. Um. But... you were simultaneously in the cage and I can't wrap my head arou--"

"And the cage doesn't exist in the same, what do you call it, space-time continuum? You also know that."

"So you can view history and experience it at any point of the timeline. Can you also change it?"

"Technically. But it's too much politics and the structure is too fragile to survive even small adjustments. It's unpredictable at best, world shattering at worst."

"So what? You wanted to end the world."

"I wanted no such thing. Humanity, perhaps, and not even all the way. But I have nothing against this planet, Sammy. Used to be one of my favorites before you guys came along."

Sam wants to pause here and delve further. But this is not a pleasant conversation, and the mood is too light to risk sullying it by going anywhere near this one with a stick.

"What about the future?"

"Always in the making. I can technically see it, but what I would see is not reliable or set in stone. So, pointless really."

Sam is going to have a massive headache overthinking this. So he decides not to. He can literally point at any significant mark in known and unknown history and Lucifer would just show him. The potential is unlimited and overwhelming. And Sam can't remember the last time he felt the slightest bit fortunate at being stuck right here. But what do you know? Right now, he does feel fucking lucky.

He wants to see the Great Pyramids of Egypt mid construction. He wants to see the discovery of fire, the first written language, animal domestication. He wants to fact-check every revolution and every war. Noah's arc. The witches of Salem. The Renaissance.

But no. There's so much suffering in history that he'd rather not bear witness to. What Lucifer selected for him was a breath of fresh air and everything he's been longing for. The beauty and the peace of simple sport and joyous crowds in the vast openness of the outside. The freedom to run unhindered and victories and defeats that don't automatically translate to life and death sentences. The sounds and scents of collective delight. Just that. He'd rather see just that.

But no. This is an opportunity he's not sure he'll ever be given again. And there's a part of him that is itching with curiosity at the being, the entity, standing right next to him in human form. If there was ever a chance to see Lucifer's world straight from Lucifer's eyes, this would be it.

"I want to see something of yours."

Lucifer looks at him quizzically, "Something of mine?"

"A personal memory... if, um, if you're okay with that."

Lucifer smiles, both amused and mildly surprised, "You want to see Heaven?"

No. Sam wants to know if Lucifer ever knew peace, if he ever experienced love that wasn't so toxic and obsessive it almost destroyed the world in its wake, if he was ever anything but the Devil.

"I want to see a memory you're fond of."

For a second there Sam is certain he'll be turned down. And he feels quite stupid, entitled, delusional. Whatever level of friendly cohabitation Sam thinks he might share with Lucifer, their relationship is not really balanced or equal, is it? Sam's heart and mind and soul are right there on the table to be dissected and studied and experimented on. And what does he know about the Devil really, other than the rage and the resentment and the bitterness that he'd shove down the throat of anyone who'd listen?

But then Lucifer is humming, and he looks like he's not just considering it, he's actively rummaging through millennia of valid and invalid options.

And he locks eyes with Sam and he snaps.

"Now, Sammy, this might be a little strenuous on your perception. But you did ask for personal."

Sam is, again, born ready.

The white pulsates. Waves of it twist and turn as color emerges from a point in the center of Sam's vision. It seeps into every direction until the entire horizon is painted anew.

It's the most aesthetically pleasing 3D rendering a human has ever laid eyes on.

Sam can make out a lot of green. Plants and trees he doesn't know names for. Vibrant and wet and alive. They sway gently with the breeze, their entanglements flirtatious and their rustling songs, throwing shadows and rainbows on dimly lit grounds. The air whispers of charm and grace and, on first look, the scenery itself is breathtaking, and there's pleasure to the mere act of beholding it. But something else is there.

In a secluded spot below a massive oak tree, a small figure is on its knees, perfectly positioned for the darkness to obscure it. Sam squints to catch any identifying details. All he can see is the tinge of paranoia in the way the figure moves its head, left and right, long strands of hair flying along with it.

A woman.

She throws her head back. And a sound, so melodic and soft, comes forth as she hisses into the sky.

_Mikah oh lee zee Sa Ma El..._

_Nee ay so Sa Ma El..._

_Zee rah meh pah rah less Sa Ma El..._

Sam tenses, turning to Lucifer. The phonetics are too familiar, and he doesn't need to ask, but he does anyway, "Enochian?"

"Shush."

The woman rests a hand on her heart. There's a quality of indignant desperation in the words Sam can't understand. A demand, a prayer, a promise.

_Deh zod ee reh doh Sa Ma El..._

_Vah teh kah rah Sa Ma El..._

_Bah rah nee seh geh Sa Ma El..._

_Pah deh rah..._

_Pah deh rah..._

Sam swallows and licks his lower lip, eyes and ears glued to the ceremony before him. The particular arrangements of sounds mean nothing to him, but the intensity with which they are spoken penetrates his skin. Goosebumps rise in solidarity, and the chill finds its way to his throat.

"Uh-- Subtitles would be nice?"

Lucifer only blinks in response. And some neuron in Sam's brain rewires itself. Because while the individual words remain nonsensical to him, he can very much comprehend their message.

A ray of sunshine slips between thick green leaves and light lands on the woman's face. She's beautiful, fierce.

_Zod ah mah rah na to me Samael..._

_Give refuge, give sanctuary, fend for me Samael..._

_Help me, liberate me, take me with you Samael..._

_And I'm yours. Always and forever..._

_Always and forever..._

Sam thinks he might have a hunch who the woman is. An uneducated guess with no tangible evidence to support it. And yet it resonates in his chest, demanding no confirmation. Something about the entire spectacle tastes of transgression and disarray. And the ritual feels private, too personal; It feels wrong to even watch.

A burst of blinding light strikes down and envelopes the kneeling figure. It must be excruciating because her body stiffens, and then it starts vibrating violently. Her eyes bleed, and there's a muted frozen scream on her lips. But, and this part is mind-boggling and goddamn terrifying, she looks calm.

The still picture burns through Sam's retina and a wave of nausea overtakes him.

He keeps his eyes wide open.

The woman is laughing now, manic and elated. And the volume of her voice escalates significantly. She's screaming into the sky, the fretful cautious demeanor from seconds before, that of someone hiding and would very much rather not be caught, is gone and forgotten. When she speaks again, she sounds fearless.

Sam can hear wings.

_Samael. O glorious one. I feel you..._

_Will you not depart without me?_

_Bind me to you and I shall leave them all behind..._

_Will you not depart without me?_

The light flickers, and for a few seconds, it appears as though it might fade altogether. The woman doesn't move an inch, and she looks haunted, possessed. Eyes glimmering with hope and unmitigated infatuation. And she repeats the same words over and over as if a vow and a mantra, ardent and vigorous.

_Pah deh rah..._

_Pah deh rah..._

And then she just disappears in a flash of light.

"Can we pause?"

Sam huffs suddenly, aggressively, fingers rubbing anxious circles against his forehead. The entire view from the balcony freezes into one shot of an empty garden, heart-stirring in its beauty.

"Sure, Sammy. You would like context."

"I mean-- fuck yes? I feel like I just walked in on the final scene of one of those, uh, found-footage horror documentaries, and the climax should mean something to me, but I don't understand."

Lucifer chuckles at that, "Give it a go."

Sam groans, trying and failing to exorcize the utter revulsion out of his one-word question, "Lilith?"

"Right on the money. Believe me, Sam, I'd have played you the entire backstory. But, one, I wasn't there for most of it and I'm not exactly omniscient in Heaven. And, two, too many guest-star angels and your pretty little human eyes won't bear it. I don't want you burnt to a crisp today."

Sam ignores the insinuation, "So Lilith was actually Adam's first wife, hm? The lore wasn't conclusive on this one."

"Wouldn't expect this particular narrative to make it to modern scripture."

"Aha, and why was she so adamant on leaving what I'm assuming is the garden of Eden?"

"Why do you think? She wanted more than the overglorified imprisonment Paradise offered in abundance. She wanted the unknown and the uncharted and the choice to decide her fate. Didn't help that your great great, times ten thousand, grandfather wasn't altogether the nicest husband a girl could ask for."

"And you're _nice_? Why come to you of all peop-- angels?"

"I suppose you don't exactly go for nice when you're looking for an ally to break you out of the kingdom of the Lord. Every other angel was doting on Dad's new baby. Guess who was similarly unimpressed at the first meet and greet?"

Sam shakes his head again, disgust and a measure of uncomfortable curiosity printed crystal clear on his frown. Lucifer's tone settles into something lower and slightly nostalgic.

"Family drama was raging upstairs. Not as bad as it'll get much later, but bad enough. I wasn't the happiest of campers and didn't particularly make a secret of it. I wanted to leave. She needed out of the overbearing suffocation of Heaven's _everything_ as well as the fantasy marriage she didn't ask for, so she wanted to leave. She prayed, quite beautifully as you may have noticed, to the singular entity in the universe that wouldn't smite her for the impudence alone, and it made dear old Dad livid, going on wrathful, so I took her with me."

"You don't sound terribly invested in the marital woes of one little human. Why did you help her?"

"Curiosity, mostly. This new polished and improved brand of self-aware apes that Dad cherished so much, gave so much, in all their glory and frailty and greed. And the sheer audacity, to seek me behind His back... Oh, she was bold, Sam. So eager and naive in her recklessness, so hopeful for some ideal of self-actualization. I found it a little charming."

Sam scoffs, uneasy and a little agitated, " _This_ is your fondest memory?"

"No. You interrupted my fondest memory. Let's resume?"

The entire exchange, with the subject matter being the cherry on top, feels so casual, mellow and domestic and so fucking outlandish. Sometimes Sam is thrown off by how completely natural it feels to stand there and bicker with the Devil over stories of such divine magnitude. Sometimes it feels too fictitious, too comical, and Sam wonders if he's gone insane at some point, and everything that happened since is just a fever dream of an old soul, damaged beyond repair.

He lets the moment of existential dread pass. Because, no, today is a good day.

"Let's."

Lucifer raises a hand and figuratively presses _play_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one actually turned out a lot longer than I expected. So I'm going to post it as two separate chapters. I also thought to give you guys at least one whole chapter that is light and happy. Next chapter should be a continuation of the same day. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that this portion of the "day" has been a self-indulgent experiment. I wanted to explore several themes and play with what we know of Archangel powers from canon. I'm hoping the outcome is as fun to read as it was to envision. If you have any thoughts, questions, or criticism, I'll absolutely love to hear from you.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Skin Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy so please be warned: Blood, Abandonment, Mild Gore.

Still day nine thousand eight hundred ninety-seven in Hell. And Sam Winchester is having a jolly good time.

All things considered, Lucifer has been extremely, uncharacteristically, benevolent today. Disregard the still damaged arm and the severe impairment and the consistent dull ache Sam has accustomed himself to shove into the background and zone out. Because he did win himself a one-use-only veto card, fair and square, and the insurance policy that comes with that is fucking riveting. Disregard the fact that the mere sight of human Lilith has just revived a grudge Sam's been burying for decades now and that every memory the name triggers has been twisting his guts with boiling rage. Because he did also get to see and hear and soak on other humans today and that, that was glorious. Disregard _Hell's uber-bitch_ being Lucifer's "fondest memory" and how the very thought feels like a stab in the back. Because, well, because this is just stupid.

All in all, Sam is being spoiled rotten and is showered with gifts he didn't exactly earn. Which means that any feeling that isn't absolute and utter gratitude and merriment should be snuffed right fucking now before the slightest bit of ungratefulness is perceived. Sam won't forgive himself if he ruins this.

Besides, Lucifer is opening up to him and, if anything, Sam can hold onto the privilege and feed his curiosity and ignore the incessant need to dwell on feelings that smell of nothing but derangement.

And so he leans back against the wall of the balcony and watches.

Lucifer is playing him a visually disorienting sequence of a surprisingly well-adjusted Lilith roaming a vacant Earth and singing poems of praise and promises of forever to a figure Sam's eyes can only discern, peripherally, as an imposing cloak of light. He can catch glimpses of the shadows massive wings are casting on barren lands, and he can feel the vibrational waves of a voice his ears can't pick on. Back and forth conversation that Sam is only getting one side of. "Samael" is everywhere and Sam can neither actually see or hear him. An optical illusion that drives him just a little mad with wanting.

There's something unnatural and fundamentally sinister about the permanent awe in Lilith's gaze. And if it's an indication of anything, it's that while beholding Lucifer may have not obliterated her, it did fry a nerve or a thousand. Because she looks positively manic, and Sam is not exactly sure what is it about a scenario, so disturbing on such a spiritual level, that makes him this uncomfortably _jealous_.

"Could she see you? Your true form?"

Lucifer replies evenly, "Humans made in Heaven and a generation or two after could, yes."

"Why did we, uh, humans, lose our immunity against angel sightings?"

"Don't know. Wasn't there. Shut up and watch."

Sam sucks on the inside of his lower lip and obeys. He bites the urge to ask if this entire memory projection is just Lucifer stroking his own ego and putting that on display. Because if so, okay, Sam gets it: Samael, the fairest of them all, the universe has never seen his likes.

The thought is interrupted prematurely, fortunately before it makes its way to Sam's face.

The scenery has changed. There's grimness and desolation to the air that Sam can feel in his very soul. Lilith has just killed a peaceful four-legged animal, somewhere between a goat and a deer, with her bare hands. She's dragging the lifeless thing, fingers wrapped around one leg, limping her way back to a cave. She looks a few years older and several pounds thinner. Dirt and time have rendered her, once soft pastel, dress a beige rag. And there's something dark and neurotic in her eyes. She is alone and downright terrified, angelic presence nowhere to be found.

Something about the primitive barbarism of this sequence makes Sam's stomach turn.

Now in the cave, she's clawing on the dead animal with nails alone, trying to rip the skin off of it. It's not a simple task, and she's breathless and despondent and so fucking frail. Starvation must have taken a toll, because she stares at the raw meat with sunken crazed eyes and she pulls back half-way, frantic, drenched in blood, and she throws her head back and cries out.

_Innocent blood for you, Samael. I fast. I slaughter._

_Hear me!_

_Forgive me! Come back! I beg of you. I ache._

A ritualistic sacrifice then, not food. As ignorant and insignificant as an offering to an archangel can be. Anguish bleeds into the prayer and it's tragic, violent and forlorn and inconsolable. And nothing happens. No bursts of light. No divine interventions. If someone is listening, they don't care. Just the deafening silence of a planet with a total population of one. Sam detests how much this breaks his heart.

"Why is she asking for forgiveness, Lucifer?"

"Not sure. I'm guessing desperation."

"And where were you?"

"Home. Dad was trying to make amends."

"So you just left?"

"So I just left."

Sam stares at him silently for a long moment. And there's no logic or reason as to why the cruelty is still catching him so off guard. Or why he's still hoping to see a hint of guilt or acknowledgment on Lucifer's otherwise emotionless face. There is none. And a heavy sick feeling overwhelms him.

"Why are you showing me this?"

Because the outright disregard, the callousness, the detached wickedness of what Sam just saw is gut-wrenching and unsettling. And Sam might burn with red-hot contempt at the sheer knowledge of what Lilith is, what she has done to him, to Dean, to the world, but he still doesn't have it in him to witness an abandonment so brutal and not wince at her suffering.

Lucifer flicks a finger and the view melts back into the empty white.

"I showed you this because, despite it all, she still chose me."

"What?"

Lucifer's expression emotes into something close to softness, "Dad, eventually, sent angels to fetch her. Him and I were on thin ice and I suppose he wanted half of his human populace back under his watchful eyes. So, general pardon, amnesty, salvation. She was supposed to go back to Heaven. She didn't. She chose me."

Sam picks on the fabric of his arm-sling nervously, a thousand spiders crawling up and down the length of his spine, "You weren't even there!"

"No, I wasn't. She waited. I never returned for her. Her soul was banished from Heaven and there was nowhere else for a soul to go. I only got her then."

"In Hell-"

"There was no Hell just yet. Just me and her. And she was grateful, Sam, so happy."

Sam chokes on the words. The heat of something ugly and oppressive and utterly beyond his comprehension rising through his chest and blocking his airways. He struggles to whisper, weak and grief-stricken, "I don't understand."

"Neither do I, Sammy. But I'll tell you a secret. I never tortured anyone who loved me like she did, and she chose me when no one else could."

This right there. The hint of melancholic affection on Lucifer's face. Sam has seen it before when he'd begged for mercy and received none. It makes his insides twist, and yet, and yet for the briefest of seconds, if one could consign to oblivion the monstrosity that is everyday's business in here, Lucifer would look human, old and sad and tired and weighed down by a memory of a lost love he could never quite sustain.

Sam's heart hurts.

"Did you ever love her, after all was said and done?"

And Lucifer is thinking, _really thinking,_ and he doesn't seem to know the answer, because for the first time in decades, he parts his lips and says nothing. And he readjusts, and tries again.

"I used her to spit in my father's face. I tainted her soul so black it demanded a new lexicon to describe. Corruption, defilement, decadence, demon. I molded her into something of me, that was less than me but mine all the same, and I cherished it for what it became. It did make me feel."

Sam is hissing every syllable, the bitterness on his tongue too much to conceal or sugarcoat, "No what you're saying is, you're incapable of love. You want to be worshiped and adored and you want something to destroy. There's nothing in you that deserves the love you so desperately seek."

Lucifer, oddly enough, looks genuinely wounded. He muses, eyes slightly distracted, "You're wrong, Sammy. I do love Michael, and Gabriel, and I suppose you, in a way."

Sam is so wound up his chest is going to burst with it. A shrill sardonic chuckle cracks his lips wide open, "Oh isn't that precious? The first, you were going to kill. The second, you already killed. The third? Fuck. Off."

Sam should have really foreseen this, should have known better, because, really, nothing there is new. If he asked Lucifer for "personal" and expected kittens and rainbows, it's no one's fault but his own. And perhaps at some point later, when he's calm enough to analyze what just happened today, it'll be his own naivety and empathy and blind utter foolishness that will strike him straight in the nose and knock him out cold. Why would he expect or think or anticipate any different? Why does it thoroughly crush his soul that, for the eternity to come, Lucifer will never, ever, change? That the tenderness Sam knows is right there will never flourish into something even slightly less devastating? That it'll just be more of the same?

This. More of this. It'll never end.

Because right now Lucifer is on him, pressing him against the wall, one elbow pushed tight against the shattered arm and sending jolts of searing-hot nerve pain through a body that should have gotten used to it by now but really really hasn't. The other hand is worse, much worse. Two fingers dig above Sam's Adam apple and then, just as easily, sink in. Sam doesn't like to be reminded of how easily every patch of skin on him tears for Lucifer. Or how accessible, open, vulnerable, his insides are.

The two fingers puncture straight through a cartlidge and right on to rub against vocal cords. Lucifer touches them carefully, curiously. They vibrate against finger pads with the remnants of a broken scream. He strokes them slowly.

"Say that again."

Sam makes a hoarse guttural noise. Blood spilling in abundance down his throat and soaking the collar of his shirt. His trachea fills up with it and he's going to suffocate on his own blood but he won't die. He won't. He'll just be suspended in the moment until Lucifer is happy and satisfied and it's going to last anywhere between a minute and a week.

"Nn-uuhh..."

"What was that?"

"Suhhrrr--"

"You know what I just realized, Sammy? I love watching you smile as much as I love watching you suffer. Just as much."

Sam's body convulses. Blood already leaking into his lungs and that sinking drowning feeling and the pain and the complete violation of all that is sacred and he regrets everything. Regrets every word. He always regrets every word.

"How would you like me to love you then, huh?"

He scratches a little on the vocal fold, forces his finger between the two and simulates a fucking motion, lazily in and out. Sam's eyes roll back in their sockets and his good hand is clawing on Lucifer's arm, pleading, pleading. It's so useless.

"Like this?"

Lucifer curls his fingers around battered flesh and pulls forward, drawing Sam's head closer to his as if maneuvering a hand puppet and it's fucking excruciating. He leans in and plants his lips on Sam's. Cold and unforgiving and yet so impossibly soft. He kisses him like a lover would. He kisses him as he chokes and spasms and marinates in the tyranny of pain so consuming he can't rationalize with. And the kiss is assertive, lengthy and hungry and demanding.

And Sam wants to kiss him back, to tell him whatever he wants to hear, to reach down for his cock and make his own ignorant and insignificant offerings, splay himself on sacrificial tables and beg for forgiveness. But he really really can't. Other than the frantic gurgling noises and the pathetic attempts at sucking enough air to actually flush the blood out of his drowned lungs, there's nothing else. His brain is fog and the agony is insurmountable and he wants to die again. He won't fucking forgive himself for this one.

Out of nowhere Lucifer pulls his fingers out and steps back, suddenly looking a little too worn out and bored of the entire ordeal. Sam collapses to his knees, almost crushing them in the process.

"I didn't want to hurt you today. I gave you exactly what you asked for. Tell me why we're here."

"Mu-uhhh..."

"I don't know what that means. Write."

So Sam does. Delirious and blinking rivers of tears away and spitting blood onto the floor. His fingers are already drenched, which helps. And he lurches over the floorboards, off balance and impetuous, and presses a shaky and wet finger-pad against the wood, draws letters he can barely see past the black spots gradually overtaking his vision. He spells the one thing that has been playing nonstop on a loop in his head, since he brought all of this upon himself.

_my fault._

The writing is messy and asymmetrical, and Sam doesn't know this yet but it's going to stay right there for months to come, inked in blood. Lucifer will tell him it's to commemorate their first kiss.

All done now, Sam grasps at Lucifer's leg, urgent and wild and ready to do just about anything. He shoves his face in Lucifer's thigh, smearing tears and red against dark denim, pleading in skin contact and tactile, fevered, reparations, not words. It's a childish attempt at an apology. Childish and pitiful really, but Lucifer always enjoys a little flair when Sam begs. And Sam would do anything. 

Lucifer regards him neutrally, and then he sighs, twirling long fingers in the messy tangles of hair on the man scrambling at his feet, and he yanks, rough and swift, forcing him up. He pushes him against the wall again, palm pressed hard against a heaving chest to hold him in place. Sam tries to focus on him, but his brain is drawing blanks and his consciousness is slipping into feral territories. He can barely make sense of the words.

"Made for each other, Sammy. Mine. And this..."

He traces a line against Sam's chilled and parted lips. The touch is slow, tender, well-nigh romantic.

"And that..."

He fiddles with mangled skin below Sam's chin, peels a strip off of the flesh, playful and self-indulgent.

"...are not mutually exclusive. Can you see it?"

Sam can only see blur and desecration. He tries to nod anyway; he tries to mouth a yes around a smothered scream.

And so Lucifer hums graciously, and he leans in again, lips brushing against the gashing tear at the top of Sam's throat. He kisses it all better.

The pain is gone. Well, not the arm, but everything else. Sam sobs his relief loud and hectic and he inhales greedily and his knees are still too weak to carry him. Lucifer could heal every single physical trauma, mend and rejuvenate with a snap. But sometimes, sometimes Sam's body can't tell the difference still, and it wouldn't just stop shuddering for hours afterwards.

Lucifer watches him quietly, a general expression of disappointment still painted fresh on his face. He slides an arm casually below Sam's ribcage and around his waist, supporting his weight, keeping him up, and he purses his lips and turns away to stare at the white that surrounds them.

"Would you like to see Dean?"

Sam is only now able to find the words, and they're small and confused and they hurt, "I-- uh... Dean?"

"Your brother. The one some 50 million light years away."

"I don't... how?"

"I can project one of your memories. I showed you mine, you show me yours."

Sam screws his eyes shut. His lips tremble, heart beating out an erratic rhythm.

"You would-- you would do that? For me?"

"I would do a lot for and to you, Sam. Can we get this conundrum out of the way?"

"Yes. Then, yes. Yes, please."

And so, for third and final screening of the day, they sit cross-legged on the floor, side by side, and they watch Dean from Sam's perspective. A calm rendition of a boring day where nothing of magnitude happens. Where Dean is chugging one beer after the other, cursing under his breath at something on the paper, making a stupid joke that Sam can't quite remember the context of. He still laughs; though his memory-self scoffs. And then he cries, because Dean is calling him "baby brother" and he's making _that_ face and he's been nagging for the past 10 minutes because he wants to go out for a drink and a warm meal and memory-Sam has literally just finished the salad from yesterday.

And Lucifer is holding his hand through the consequent drive in the Impala, thumb rubbing soothingly against dry skin as Led Zeppelin plays in the background. Sam presses back against the cold hand that engulfs his, because it's comforting, for some reason, to grip on something solid, real. He watches his brother sing along, fingers tapping on and off Baby's steering wheel, matching the beat, cheerful and carefree. And there's an intense bittersweet yearning to the moment, and the tears flow but they don't sting, and Sam can't stop smiling.

"I miss him, Lucifer, so much."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so that's that. Day over. We'll go back to one day per chapter. As always, thoughts, criticism, and questions are welcomed and extremely appreciated!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for any and every form of feedback!


	5. Only Lovers Left Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is after a great movie of the same name.
> 
> Also, this chapter is mostly fluff and conversation and weird sex stuff of the angelic variety.

It's day forty-three thousand six hundred five in Hell. And Sam Winchester marks it down as the 4th of August, Year Two, on the little calendar by the balcony door.

Sam wouldn't claim to understand the full extent of ancient grace, the intricacies of pure matter put together by God himself, the machinery of creation, that make an archangel what he is. Just as much, he wouldn't assume comprehension of the petty vices with cosmic repercussions, the convoluted dynamics of Heaven's royalties, the history before history, that make one fall. Regardless, Sam thinks he might know Lucifer on a level so intimate, so personal; in a way he's never before known anyone. In a way no one before has ever known him.

The accumulated knowledge, born of years that feel like decades and decades that feel like days, doesn't come with a conclusion. Sam can't put the Devil into words. Can't wrap up all what Lucifer is and stamp a name on it. Concepts like good and evil and kindness and cruelty are absurd and reductive. Man, like angel, either serves a cause or destroys one. Everyone is everything. And everything is subjective.

Turns out Lucifer isn't his prison warden after all. He's his prison mate. A confined entity, older than the Sun and burning just as bright. And Sam blames his flayed blistering skin on no one. He did what he had to do. Lucifer is doing what he has to do. And God is doing nothing to save either of them, which is what God does. It is what it is.

Speaking of the Sun, a few years after the green bird, Sam had made it rise and set at will. And then Sam made night, decorated the sky with stars and moons and the occasional Northern Lights. It had been, was, is beautiful, and Lucifer had been, was, is so fucking proud of him it gives him butterflies.

Sam remembers long nights spent solely on the floor, he and Lucifer crouched over a white board designing constellations. He remembers the few times Lucifer had touched his forehead and Sam saw a star being born. He remembers feeling like a god. He remembers power and creation trickling off of the tips of his fingers and into the atoms that surround them, reshaping them into an image he but conjured up behind closed eyelids.

And then there was time. Day/night cycles comprised weeks, and weeks comprised months, and Sam sat down cross-legged by Lucifer's feet and filled in 7*6 tables.

_"You're basing your months on lunar cycles and this is a Gregorian calendar, Sammy."_

_"So?"_

_"Just saying, buddy; this is fucking outrageous."_

_"Yeah well. Guess this version of Earth is flat. We're the center of the universe and we orbit nothing. So unless it outrages you enough to crush my knuckles right now, shut up and let me focus."_

_"Hmm. After you're done then."_

_"I'd rather not. But if you insist, I can put it down on the calendar for 5 pm?"_

_This had Lucifer chuckling for a good minute. No knuckles were crushed at 5 pm._

_"Hey, Lucifer, should we start Year One with a Monday or a Saturday?"_

_"Make it a Wednesday."_

_"Alrighty then. It's Wednesday, the first of January. Happy new year!"_

And so Sam knows magic, and harmony, and calm moments of undiluted joy. It was odd the first time he made Lucifer laugh. Even odder the first time Lucifer made him laugh. Genuine, lighthearted and clean laughter, no bitten scorn or leftover bitterness peering at the edges. Sam wondered then if there was ever a point of holding on to grudges. Because it's been too many years and he can barely remember why, oh why, he was so goddamn angry all the time.

But Sam also knows suffering. Had his 10,000 hours of the polished necessary experience, and then some, to truly master it. Could write papers on it. Have actually written one in fucking Enochian since Lucifer's been tutoring. Because the latter is old and so, so bored and he doesn't torture with malice; he just likes to play. Heaven's might and vigor and fury, the self-righteous pride, and the offences dealt eons ago and never forgotten forever trapped in a jail cell. A jail cell Sam did throw him in again. And when the Devil gets a little stir-crazy, he gets violent. When the Bringer of Light feels misunderstood, he also gets violent. Because Lucifer never learnt to communicate in ways that didn't pertain to blood and terror and mind games that scar your soul and he won't heal.

Sometimes Sam thinks he might owe him the outlet, the squeals and the begging and the utter chaos that befalls a human body when it's pushed beyond the limits of death and still breathing. And if being the occasional punching bag of a damaged and equally claustrophobic fallen angel is the price to pay, if bearing the brunt of the eternally aggravated narcissism keeps the peace, Sam thinks he can understand the drive. Doesn't like it one bit, but he understands.

The highlight of the post-January era is the outdoors. Lucifer would snap them out of the room and into the valley. And this is a view Sam knows by heart. This is a view Sam studied, designed, created. And yet actually being in the midst of it is otherworldly. The first time Lucifer took him out, Sam was so overwhelmed by the openness and the vastness he burst down in tears. Couldn't stop sobbing his elation into the stars, crouched down on the ground, running quivering fascinated fingers through grass and gasping and panting like the very touch was nothing short of sorcery. And in many ways, it was. But Sam is calmer now; accustomed to nature and beauty and long serene walks under the moonlight. Rose petals and scents and hours and hours of stargazing and conversation. And he never takes it for granted.

It's around dawn when Lucifer flies them both downstairs. The sky is all shades of indigo and orange and it's breathtaking, and the birds are just about to start their morning choir. Today they just sit in the middle of the valley, watching the sunrise and talking. Sam has already toed his shoes off and is rubbing the soles of his bare feet against the scratchy freshness of the earth beneath him. There's a simple pleasure to the sensation that he's learning to appreciate anew.

And Sam is eyeing the horizon critically, the gaze of an architect scanning a yet unfinished project, seeing potential in every corner, "We should make a pond. I'd need more space. Can we have more space?"

"Yes."

"Lucifer, have you ever gone swimming?"

Lucifer purses his lips, "Once. Don't care for it. Feels like flying except heavier."

Sam tries to visualize an archangel giving a new ocean a test-run, wings and grace and a virgin planet still unexplored. He thinks it might have been charming, would have loved to put the mental image to canvas if he could paint at all. If the essence of angel can be captured and outlined and done justice in the process.

"I miss swimming. If I make a pond, will you let me swim?"

Lucifer narrows his eyes, considering the prospect, and Sam knows the look, knows how every introduced element can be used and abused and he doesn't mind if Lucifer will drown him if he'll also let him swim occasionally. He ends up getting an affirmative hum.

"Yes, Sammy, I'll let you swim."

Sam is all smiles and godliness, a poised expression settling on his face as he analyzes the dimensions and the scenery. Physics and geology are not default features and must be calculated into the design. If he creates a pond in the far west, he'll have to think reflections, angles, depth, the edges where the water meets the green. Otherwise it'll look just wrong. If it's not absolutely perfect, the suspension of disbelief wears thin. And Sam can't have that. He shifts towards Lucifer and draws empty experimental geometric shapes in the air between them.

"Not today, but will you swim with me then? If you're just sitting there on the shore watching, it'll be a little creepy."

"Your priorities are 10 levels of fucked up, Sam Winchester."

"This coming from you is 10 levels of ouch."

Lucifer shakes his head, as if the effortless audacity is both incredulous and disarming. A lopsided grin lingers there and he doesn't bother to masquerade it when he murmurs, "Make the pond first and then we'll discuss skinny dipping in Hell, sure."

"Been meaning to ask you something actually."

"Ask me."

"So I know this whole thing: day and night and time and nature, I know they're all an illusion for my benefit. But I see them and I feel them and they're... real to me. Are they real to you? When you look around right now, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Lucifer blinks once, a fleeting shadow of something heavy and unpleasant leaving his posture a little stiff, "You might not want the answer to that, buddy."

Sam retorts gently, "I do. Tell me."

"I'm seeing what you're seeing, yes. But I also see beyond it. The valley, the cosmos, the room, a flimsy transparent layer on top of nothing. I see the dark, the essence of the cage lurking between the cracks. I see Hell in the background."

"Always?"

"Always, Sammy."

Sam fidgets uneasily, fist clenching and unclenching around soil and broken twigs. The memory of what the dark is, the founding material and the only component of the cage, is ingrained in him. Solid nothingness that once seeped into him, paralyzed him, devoured his sanity in chunks. And Lucifer hasn't removed the protective shield that keeps Sam from seeing, from feeling, what the cage truly is, in more than a century now. But the mere topic still triggers panic so primal it knocks air and reason and decorum out of Sam's lungs. And for a second there, the horizon glitches.

"Sam?"

"Huh..."

"Don't give that train of thought passage. You're here. You're okay. Nothing to fret over and don't make me give you one."

Lucifer doesn't particularly enjoy fear that he, himself, did not deliberately instigate. Sam knows this, knows that a panic attack Lucifer didn't intentionally weave, is a panic attack he'll have no patience for and will most probably punish. This should not be as an effective of a method as it is to keep Sam's riled up emotions in check. It always seems to get the job done regardless. The dark might be far more tyrannical than anything Lucifer could ever do to him, but the dark is not really here; and Lucifer is.

So Sam chews on his lips and shoves the storm down, down, down.

"Sorry, um, I-- I know, I'm good. Just... how the fuck do you get used to it?"

"Getting used to it would defeat the purpose of eternal punishment now, wouldn't it?"

Sam clicks his tongue, inhaling with urgency he's still trying to school into something much less obviously frantic. His gaze darts left and right, unfocused and distraught. And he's aware, beyond reasonable doubt, that this cage is designed exclusively and primarily for the Devil. It might annihilate the very consciousness of a human, but Lucifer did, can, will survive and withstand it. And yet it's unfathomable that it's always there for him, that no illusions, no dream worlds, can keep it away. Lucifer is always there and Sam is _so fucking sorry_.

"You never told me. Why haven't you ever told me?"

The frustration in this question is familiar on a domestic level. The memories Lucifer plays him of Dean every once and a while are always happy. But somewhere in his soul, like an old habit or a second nature, Sam recalls those conversations. The arguments over kept secrets and the aggressive " _I'm_ _fine_ " meant to cut a long story short. And Sam is not sure why he's drawing this comparison now, or what his brain is trying to achieve by relating to the sentiment.

Lucifer's own plight in Hell is never something he would discuss at length, if at all. Sam still has no idea what happens beyond the door of his locked room when Lucifer isn't in there with him. And judging by the new inputs, it might not be all that pleasant to find out.

Lucifer is all casual dismissals and finality. He's _fine_ and there's nothing there to discuss or lament over. He scoffs a tad bit more aggressively than someone who is fine would, and he shrugs.

"Ehh, Sammy, I'm not half as whiny as I oughta be. Now, I appreciate the solidarity terror, but drop it."

"Sure, okay, sorry."

But Sam can't just "drop it," because his chest is growing tighter by the second and something tense and demanding is coiling in his guts. And the man next to him is, once again, calm and composed and whatever torment he's enduring, he's never once showed it. Sam swallows and watches him silently. Cold and impenetrable and larger than life, all sharp edges and reckless stoicism and smiles that sting. As if every suffering that has ever befallen him is just something he can feed on, build on the resentment and unleash it in casual pouts of savagery.

Sam understands the inclination. The destruction inwards wielded into a weapon and waved with abandon. He understands and it makes his heart ache.

"There comes the Sun," Lucifer mumbles placidly, "Stellar job on the clouds and the color scheme, by the way."

Sam runs both hands through his own hair, letting them rest a moment on the back of his head. A heavy clammy weight, antsy to meddle, to do something, make a difference. He replies simply, an elusive half-idea distracting him, "You showed me the real thing and I just copied it."

"Take a fucking compliment, goddamn."

Sam smiles softly. The sky is settling into baby-blue and white, splashes of red violet still hanging in the air. He breathes it in, because something about the view is light and goodness and there's resilience to this reality that Sam almost feels guilty for monopolizing. This, everything he created as well as the ability to create it, is a gift he doesn't know how to repay. And there's gratitude there that nags at him, that demands redemption and reciprocity.

"Hey, can you actually close your eyes, or whatever is the equivalent of not seeing what I'm doing right now? Just for 20 seconds?"

The words spill out of Sam's mouth unhampered, a thought still forming and twisting and morphing in the back of his head.

And Lucifer quirks a brow, curious and inviting, "What do you got cooking, Sammy?"

"Just do. Please?"

"Okay."

Lucifer closes his eyes unceremoniously, elbows balanced on bent knees, "One Mississippi. Two..."

And there's no certainty to this, no logic that holds, just an urge with ambiguous motivations. Sam finds himself acting out of impulse a lot recently, but only within borders he's learnt to identify and not break. He's not sure if this is a side effect of the freedom that comes with creation, or if a part of his brain is too fried to overthink actions that are not thought out and dissected for him.

Whatever it is, he can't pinpoint why or to what end. He just does. And Lucifer is on 19 when Sam tells him he can look now.

Lucifer stares ahead, eyes slowly travelling up, surveying the environment. Somewhere to the north-east of the rising Sun, where nothing but atmosphere existed 20 seconds ago, a small bright cosmic body shines. Round and radiant, stunning and magnetic.

For a moment, everything is quiet. Too quiet. The birds stop singing and Sam can hear himself breathe.

"Sam, what is this?"

"You know what this is."

Lucifer mouths the word like the syllables hurt, "Venus."

Sam is nodding slowly, a small tense smile hovering at the corners of his lips. He fixes his gaze on the man next to him and there's anticipation there, tentative and wanting. He explains in nervous unsure spurts.

"Think of it as a tribute. The Morning Star. Something for you to focus on when Hell behind the scenes is too smothering. Something for me to focus on when you're not here."

His speech trails at the end, volume lower and lower until it's barely a whisper. Because Lucifer's hand is clutching hard, too tight, on his thigh and it's painful but it's not unkind. And Sam can see something twitch and can hear a hitch in his chest and the small physical cues are more raw emotion than Sam is ever allowed to see.

Lucifer is still and silent, gaze glued up to the glowing mass in the sky, brilliance and splendor reflecting back in the blue of his eyes. He parts his lips as if he can't, can't bear it, and he is curling his fingers a little tighter around sensitive flesh and Sam whimpers but doesn't pull back. And it doesn't feel vindictive, not at all; it feels like he _needs_ to grip on something.

"Why?"

Sam is not thinking or rationalizing and, more often than not, he really, really, doesn't want to. He replies in earnest.

"I don't know. Feels pretty fucking deranged, but I-- I just want to make your existence easier."

The same dreamy mesmerized gaze shoots back to Sam, violent in its velocity, piercing. And Lucifer is staring at him as though he wants, needs, to see right through his skull, but can't. Hints of red fizzle there and never truly wither away. And it should be fucking intimidating, but it's not. Because Lucifer's fist might be squeezing trapped flesh too tight until superficial veins burst under the pressure, but nothing, nothing about this is menacing.

Lucifer is quietly unfolding. And waves of all that is soft and bright and gentle pour into Sam's receptors, every nook and cranny of every atom that makes him. And Sam can swear the green of the valley is greener, and the Sun is warmer, and he can smell colors and see music and hear Heaven. And the man a few inches away from him is pure fucking light.

A surge of tenderness, persistent and overflowing, seeps into Lucifer's very being. Sam knows this because he can feel it. He can feel the grace wrapped around his soul pulsate with it. The essence of angel, always a fretful cold fire before, almost always wound up restlessness and sharpness and thorns before, is soft now. A presence of velvet and peace. And Sam has nothing, nothing in the span of his unnaturally lengthy and eventful human experience, to compare this to.

Not that he'll ever need to explain. Not that words will ever suffice.

"I feel you. Everything you feel, I feel."

Sam breathes, and the sounds cling to his lower lip and then he's watching them float away. And Lucifer is smiling. Something so grief-stricken and exhilarated. He wears the emotion like an identity, vivacious and magnificent.

"I know."

And Sam is not sure why he's thinking of bedtime stories he was never told, of castles and beasts and kisses that undid curses. And all he wants to do is close his eyes and swim with the current, to dissolve out of the imaginary shell of his body and find the parts of his soul entangled with Lucifer's grace and become them.

"I want-- I want more."

Sam is greed and need and hunger that is spiritual and intrinsic and desperate. And Lucifer gives, gives so much more than he ever takes. Generous and benevolent and brutal and devastatingly kind.

There are arms wrapped around him now. Strong human arms. And then there are wings, massive and glorious and cold and fond. And Sam can't see them because all he can see, all that he is, is light. But he can feel them brushing against his skin vigorously, squeezing him in, coating him in thrill and bliss and ecstasy. And Sam is moaning, loud and shameless, and he's pushing his body closer, holding tighter, aching for it.

Not an inch of him isn't kissed, a warm tongue tracing lines of pleasure against his very soul. He can't breathe. He can't think. He can't put two words together because all he wants to scream is _devour me_ and he's twisting and shaking and grabbing on the divine mass that envelopes him, dripping energy and grace and power and love. And Sam is driven by an insane urge to consume all of it, to plant parted, starved, lips against pure matter and absorb all that is good, and all that is vicious. It's so sweet and tender and metaphysical and it fucking ruins him.

"Sammy..."

"Lucifer more more more..."

Sam wants to melt. Wants to break into pieces and exist in fragments. A consciousness touched by light and glory for all eternities to come. And there are hands over, around, inside him, unwinding him, stroking kindness and pleasure into flesh that forgot how it should feel to be loved. And he's sucking on two fingers, tickling at the back of his throat, making everything tick and shudder and explode with colors and songs and _feelings._ And it's earth shattering, ethereal, splitting him open and filling him up. He groans like he's dying, like the fleeting seconds when he's not stuffed full with history, with electricity, with something ancient and sublime and beautiful, are killing him.

He folds himself around everything that is Lucifer and he holds tight, panting and sobbing and laughing and drowning, grasping on shirt and hair and cock and wings and grace and damnation. The entire universe hammers in his chest, profound and eternal. He tastes Earth and Heaven and Hell, every illusion and every truth. And he feels broken and perfect, adored and holy. He still can't breathe and he doesn't need to.

"Sammy, I'm going to ease you down now."

Sam hears the voice, understands the words, and he leans into them. He wants nothing more than to stay up and feed on the frenzy of this fusion, a big bang in its own right, birthing stars and life into his veins and it's never enough and it's too much and he wants so much more. But whatever the voice says goes. It's a simple fact that invites no arguments and no resistance. And in its simplicity, it's grounding.

The world is outlining itself gradually, colors settling back where they should. And Sam has to blink a few times before his blurry vision smoothens and stabilizes. And there it is. The Sun mid-sky and the extended valley and... Lucifer. Solid and human-like and smiling, warm and gentle.

And Sam is not sure exactly when they moved to reposition themselves like this. Sitting face to face and legs wrapped around each other. Intertwined and close and intimate. But then again, Sam is not sure exactly what the hell just transpired. What he knows is, the most wonderful thing to ever happen to him just happened to him, and that he's still high on happy chemicals and he doesn't mind the proximity in the slightest.

"Did we just... have sex?"

_Did we just make love?_

Sam asks, eyeing himself suspiciously, fully clothed and clean. Not a drop of sweat, or any other bodily fluid for the matter. And Lucifer draws his head closer, cupping his face, fingers scratching against his temples lightly.

"Hmm. That's a complicated question."

Sam chuckles, incredibly light-hearted and bold, _ecstatic_ , "Felt like a thousand orgasms."

"Well, you're welcome."

"I think, uh... I think your grace was inside my soul. I think, for a second, we were almost one."

A playful wink, then, "That's one way to put it."

Sam huffs another chuckle, this time awkwardly. He straightens his face and inhales. He's walking on air and nothing about this feels bizarre or particularly alarming. Maybe the latter, a little, but not enough to count. What tugs at his curiosity is why. His small act of kindness rewarded tenfold. Why?

"Whatever it was, Lucifer, what did I do to deserve it?"

Lucifer hums thoughtfully, brushes a thumb against a loose strand of hair, slow and indulgent and impassioned.

"You sat right here, all tenderness and warmth for me. And it did make my existence easier."

Sam stares at him silently, takes everything in. The easy fluent approval, the droplets of joy at the corners of his eyes, the wistful edge to his smile. All of it. And Sam's chest is so full. _So full_.

And this openness, this intimate transparency, is the first of its kind. Sam doesn't know how to tread it. And yet he ventures in, biblical valor and careful steps.

"Yesterday, when you opened me up and burnt my heart, you were burning too."

"I'm always burning."

"Does hurting me help?"

And maybe a part of Sam is pining for a "yes." The part that needs for the pain and the cruelty to have purpose and justification. The part that wants to humanize and explain the Devil, to forgive him, for all that was and all that will, and have this forgiveness make sense. And Lucifer is tilting his head at the question, all unapologetic honesty and open handed philanthropy and fondness.

"No. It's a good distraction though. But I won't hurt you today. I won't hurt you for a week."

Sam laughs until there are tears. Because this is terrible news, and it's also great news. And Lucifer is terrible and great and it is what it is.

"Thank you. I'm very grateful, for everything. I just want you to know this: I didn't make Venus to appeal to your vanity or to buy myself mercy. I promise."

Lucifer kisses him like the mere suggestion of the contrary would crush him.

"Oh I know, Sammy. My boy-king. It's breaking my heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!
> 
> So, real life is exceptionally challenging nowadays and I hope everyone is staying safe and fighting the good fight, in whichever way that feels right to you. Writing this chapter took ages and several discarded drafts, but it's also an amazing outlet and it's keeping me sane and functional. If you have thoughts or questions or criticism to share, I'll appreciate all of it very much!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. The Brothers that Keep Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Starvation, very brief mentions of suicidal ideation. 
> 
> Also featuring Dean, sort of.

It's day fifteen thousand two hundred in Hell. And Sam Winchester is starving.

"Sammy, you coming? Breakfast is ready!"

Dean has been making pancakes. chopped strawberries and maple syrup and whipped cream and at least 3 different types of chocolate sprinkles. It's a little (a lot) over the top, something bittersweet and overcompensating. The freshly kneaded dough smells like an apology that was never really owed; Dean, pushing through it with a grin, all fortitude and festivity, smells like home. And Sam smiles despite everything. 

None of this is real. Sixteen year old Dean trying to make up for a forgotten birthday and a very ugly fight with Dad is not real. Scattered shoplifted ingredients and dirty motel kitchenettes and the sound of big brother's voice, all exaggerated merriment and a hefty measure of tip-toeing around the elephant in the room? Familiar yes, nice even, but not real.

At least not as real as the gravity beneath Sam's feet keeping them rooted to floorboards that feel like magnets and won't let him move. Not as real as the agonizing clench in his guts, twisting tight and ever so slowly, shrieking, because he's _hungry_ , and he's not supposed to be hungry in Hell and he can't, for the life of him, remember what he did to warrant this. Not as real as Lucifer never answering the door and Sam has been knocking, knocking, yelling and screaming and pleading and it's been, what, a month?

_The food on the table is not real._

_Dean is not real._

_You're hallucinating because you're starving._

He tries to drag himself to the chair anyway. His body heavy and aching and every motion is eating up on energy he doesn't have to spare. The only worthwhile effort should be spent on knocking really, but Sam wants the pancakes. Wants the very brief false promise of any sort of reprieve because everything else is just deprivation.

"Okay, birthday boy, whaddya think?"

Dean is staring at him with big wide expectant eyes. Sam tries to ignore how blurry his face is, how his features keep zoning in and out of focus, morphing into versions of Dean that are much older and a lot less forgiving. He fixes his eyes on his plate, on giving his not-real brother the validation he deserves because he's actually a very decent cook and he just loves him, loves him so much.

"It's delicious, Dean, yum!"

He whispers the words through gritted teeth. His throat tightens around nothing. The forkful he's chewing on tastes like air and insanity. And Dean looks very pleased with himself.

"He's going to come around, Sammy. You know it; I know it. He thinks you're a stubborn little shit but he loves you."

Sam knows Dean is talking about Dad. John Winchester off into the wilds doing god knows what and hanging up the phone every time Sam calls. Can't remember what he did to deserve this. Can't remember much of anything but he's sorry. He's so sorry and he's going to do better.

"But he always comes when I call, Dean. _Always_."

_What if he doesn't?_

_What if he never comes back?_

_What if..._

"What if I'm alone here, Dean? I'm scared-- god, I'm scared out of my mind. I'm so hungry. I'm so fucking scared."

Dean is making pasta on Bobby's old stove now. And he's sighing, tired and aggravated and disgusted. It smells like garlic and rosemary and disappointment. And Sam can't remember if there was always a burdened edge to the way Dean carries himself, a cross he never chose to bear and would never abandon. And Sam did nothing, since infancy, since he was destined to be born, but add to this weight. Piles of letdowns and fuckups and Sam being the family freak, always needs fixing, always needs saving. Something to coddle and micromanage and keep wary eyes on.

"Jesus fucking Christ, dude, you're melodramatic as hell. So what if you're alone, you have me."

"Dean, I need... My head is killing me."

"Gotta figure out where you fucked up sooo bad to earn yourself a sabbatical of famine and the silent no-treatment, huh?"

Sam is trying to think, trying to recall a time before the pangs started, before Lucifer stopped visiting and his brain started leaking half-distorted memories of a past-life he's being punished for. But no thought forms to completion and the black hole in his stomach is a consistent oppressive presence that sucks every attempt at rationale dry. And, logically speaking, he should be at this particular phase of starvation where it doesn't hurt anymore. Where it's just the hallucinations and the euphoria and his body shutting down gradually, welcoming death with open arms. But neither death nor sensible biology is an active factor in this equation. And this is just torture, methodical and deliberate, where his consciousness is suspended in a constant state of hunger and near-delirium, never deteriorating enough to comatosis, never alleviating enough to normalcy.

There's a small sick comfort to the systematic controlled nature of the pain. It means he's still here. It means there are a million and one ways to suffer and Lucifer never seems to run out of ideas. Because if this entire ordeal is not some ambiguous sadistic lesson, if it's not just cruelty for cruelty's sake, if Lucifer is not here pulling the strings and making his body feel things it shouldn't, by virtue of not even existing in this realm, possibly feel, Sam thinks he might disappear. Might just crumble and lose his mind.

"Please stop cooking, Dean."

"Gonna hit the road in an hour, Sammy. You need to eat."

"You're trying to save me and I-- I understand, and I appreciate it more than you'll ever know and I love you... but I am past saving, Dean. There's no fucking road. Just-- Dean, please, please. Stop. Cooking."

But Dean's been frying eggs. There's a veggie burger on the table. Dean is grilling a steak. Dean is slicing tomatoes for a salad. Dean is grinding meat for the spaghetti. Dean is baking him a fucking graduation party cake.

Dean never stops trying and Sam slams his head against the locked door and screams like a maniac.

When the door opens several hours later, Sam is just about ready to murder someone and eat them. But there's no one there. Everything is smoke. 

It takes Sam a few seconds to register the creak, to pick up on the subtle change in the air around him. And he is curled on the floor, too drained to even move a muscle, but Lucifer is here and the figure behind a cloud of tears is a sight for sore eyes, pushing blood just that tad bit faster in his veins. And Sam can finally breathe properly.

"You're here..."

Lucifer is kneeling to sit next to him, all angel, all salvation, carefully pulling his head up and onto his lap. And the cold fingertips on his face, through his hair, against his cheekbones, are all the reassurance he needs. In a thousand years from now, and if Sam is never touched like this again, he'd still recognize him blind.

"I'm here, Sammy."

And Lucifer's palm is pressed flat against his rib cage, tracing lines along protruding bones, all the way down to abdominal muscles that tremble faintly at the contact. Analytical caresses, curious and captivated.

Sam stammers with the feeble urgency of last words on deathbeds, "Feed me..."

A hand rests on his deflated stomach, a comforting weight against the emptiness.

"No. You missed me?"

This might as well be a rhetorical question. Sam can't remember a point of time where he didn't miss him and felt it in his very bones. It's not even an emotion; it's a physical craving that transcends reason. Sam thinks of demon blood and addiction and _need, need, need._ He blinks and a single tear slips, and he whispers, all heat and candor and shame, "Yes."

In the opposite corner of the room, Dean is leant against half a kitchen counter with a discarded box of Chinese food at his side. He looks bewildered, like he's just seen a monster, like he can't wait to crush the abomination and burn and bury its remains. Sam forces his eyes away.

But not before Lucifer catches his line of sight and follows it. And there's a moment of silence then where Sam prays to anyone who's listening that the phantom of his brother, the intricate figment of a decaying mind, is private. That Lucifer is not seeing the repulsed glare on Dean's face. It doesn't last.

"Aw. Big bro's been keeping you company?"

His madness must be somewhere between funny and pathetic, but there's no taunting in the question. Sam had expected plenty and is confused by the hint of genuine camaraderie striking him in the face. He still replies hastily, almost apologetic, "I'm hallucinating. I can't-- can't make it stop."

Lucifer hums sympathetically, "Your hallucination looks pretty judgmental though, huh?"

Sam pulls up off of Lucifer's lap in one violent swift move. Suddenly too vulnerable to withstand touch, and Dean's scrutiny burns, and the acknowledgment of it burns three times worse. The motion is too abrupt, and pain swarms in his head, sharp and heavy, like his eyes are being gouged out. He curls his hands into fists and exhales, grunts his words as if he's mourning them.

"Make him go away. Lucifer, you promised. You promised. Only happy memories when it comes to Dean."

Lucifer had promised, ages ago, right after the first time he projected a memory of Dean on the endless white outside and held Sam's hand through it: only happy memories when it comes to Dean. Only the best of the best: sunny mornings and starry nights and long road trips with a brother who would die and kill for him. Only beers and pie and stupid jokes and silly childhood shenanigans. It's a reward and a kindness and the memory of Dean remains clean, never a tool to poke him where it hurts, never twisted and used against him.

Because anything less would be cheap. Because Lucifer doesn't need to manipulate what is real or maim what is beautiful. Because if Sam were ever to arrive at conclusions here, they'll not be based on lies and distortions. Sam is given the best of Dean and the best and worst of Lucifer and all the time in all of eternity to shape his world, find his truth, reach a verdict and live with it.

And Sam knows this, knows that this version of Dean cannot be pinned on Lucifer. That this is all him. Every accusation in Dean's eyes is his own guilt. The utter revulsion on Dean's face is his own shame.

Justifiably then, Lucifer is offended, raised brow and pressed lips, tight and mirthless, "Ahh, I never broke that promise, Sam. The memories I give you of your brother are my gifts to give. The pain you inflict on yourself is yours to sort through. Would you prefer it any other way?"

Sam knows he can ask for this and have it be done. A privilege and a curse and a slippery slope. If he gives this away too, the autonomy of his nightmares, it won't stop there. He breathes out a no.

Lucifer reaches behind him and rubs the nape of his neck gently. He sounds almost sorry.

"Free will in all its glory, Sammy. I will not alter your reality beyond your recognition and I will not tell your mind what to think and what to conjure. It's all you, buddy. Your feelings, your regrets, your demons, your choices. All you, not a puppet, not a victim, not my Stepford housewife to program into peaceful dreams."

Sometimes it's impossible for Sam to see himself as anything but a victim. It's a mental state that, though it stings, also offers absolution. To think of himself as a passive entity with no agency, buried under a mountain of Stockholm syndrome and 10 other disorders he can't name, absolved from all blame. It's an acquittal so final it's comforting. If he's manipulated into every decision, and every emotion is the product of a carefully constructed ploy, then it's not really his fault, and Dean shouldn't look so disgusted. Shouldn't grimace like his baby brother's downfall in Hell disgraces his very identity.

These are mental gymnastics that Lucifer finds insulting, reductive, to both of them. And Sam had argued the issue before, frequently and at length, thrown curses and defences and excuses, left and right and all over the place.

_You fucked me up so thoroughly I can't recognize myself._

And yet, in his heart of hearts, Sam believes him. Past the point of self-preservation, he chose this. To seek comfort with the enemy. Anything but the loneliness and the nothingness and the soul-crushing ache, in his very core, when Lucifer is not here. Everything else, every form of submission, is collateral damage. Because Lucifer doing nothing to him is always so much worse than Lucifer doing everything to him. It comes down to whether Sam would rather be pitied or condemned. His choice, his fault. All him, all Sam.

He throws a sorrowful glance at his brother, an unspoken apology, and he murmurs to Lucifer, bitter and exhausted, "You're right. I'm sorry."

"When you're ready to discuss why your brain is conjuring up a version of your brother that looks at you like you're the scum of the Earth, let me know. And we'll talk."

Sam cracks a low startled giggle, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing himself to just breathe the tension and the resentment out, "Lucifer, you've been starving me for weeks and now you're offering some sort of free therapy to work on my self-worth. I, uh... I have no fucking idea what to say."

Lucifer is smiling, mild amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, "Oh no, Sammy. This is Hell. We don't do therapy here; we do accountability."

Sometimes Sam hates himself so much he's grateful for the torture. Sometimes he thinks he can forgive the Devil for everything because he deserves it.

"Speaking of brothers and accountability. I might have been a little petty and deprived us both from a family visit."

Sam's head perks up at the words, his attention taut and fixed. He's just about to delve in with a question when he's struck almost unconscious again. The hunger pangs come and go, but when they hit, they wreak havoc on his entire system, and for minutes that extend endlessly he can barely stand his own skin.

His body is jerking forward and he's doubling over on the floor, left arm wrapped tight around his own torso as he cries out into his right elbow. He convulses with the spasms, violent cramps twisting his insides into knots, hideous and ravenous. His stomach feeding on itself, angry and demanding and Sam can't regulate air, can't provide basic sustenance to an organism that has gone too long without any. Living is a terrible innate need that defies will and Sam just wants to die.

He sinks teeth into his own flesh and weeps like a child.

"Lucifer-- fuck please... please turn it off!"

The worst part of this, ironically, is that he knows he'll never be fed. When this is over and Lucifer has had his fun, he'll just snap him out of hunger. He'll never eat again, and it's a ridiculous irrational thought but it possesses him with such vigor he just wants to cry and cry. 

Lucifer watches him silently, smile gone now and expression rigid. He stretches his arm, open and inviting, and gestures calmly, "Come."

Sam is in so much pain he can't think or move. A dark void inside him swallowing him in. A vicious vacuuming effect, pulling on every organ and shredding tendons and muscles. It steals at his awareness and clouds his vision. He crawls towards the voice anyway, dragging himself across the small space that separates them, drops himself between welcoming arms.

Lucifer pulls him closer and just soothes.

"What hurts?"

"Everything. Please."

"No."

"Lucifer, please."

"No."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry..."

"What did we say about empty apologies when you don't know what you did and are just blurting out whatever you think I want to hear?" 

"Tt-to stop patronizing you."

"There you go."

"Anything, I'll do anything..."

"Shush. Endure it. it will pass."

Sam wants to scream that it will pass, yes, and that what remains in its stead is still pure agony. The maddening need at the back of his throat, the compulsive teeth-grinding, the gradual atrophy, and how every word and every physical interaction is a battle of wills, slow and laborious and excruciating. And the chills and the nausea and the harrowing headaches. And he's been enduring far longer than humans can or should and he just wants mercy. But the worst of it is crippling, and for a few minutes he just clutches on Lucifer and wails on his chest, aggressive tremors reeling through his body and cold sweat drenching the shirt beneath him.

And even as he withers away, Sam is still bigger in build, broader, taller. And yet he curls so small, vulnerable and desperate and wrapped up so entirely. Arms draped around him like a blanket, protective and possessive and consolatory. Lucifer holds him until the waves subside into something he can find his words through. And Sam's body slumps uselessly into the embrace, drained and empty. He doesn't beg anymore; he just breathes.

Sam slips into this routine so easily now. A level of physical intimacy, not just after and before, but during torture. Lucifer seems to enjoy it because it's honest. Because Sam is more open, less reserved, when he's suffering. And he makes beautiful noises and he shivers ever so slightly, and it's rather charming. And this is respite Sam can't deny himself, and it has become so normal, so expected, even sought after when it's not freely given. Sometimes Sam forgets to hate it. Sometimes he doesn't have it in him to feel ashamed. Sometimes it's the most natural thing in the world.

Dean in the corner doesn't agree. It's all over his face and it's daggers into Sam's chest. But he doesn't say anything, hasn't said anything since Lucifer came. And Sam is not sure if the hallucination of his brother is stunned into passive aggressive silence, or if his brain is somehow pacified, less critical, kinder to itself when the Devil is doing the abuse for him.

He shifts with some effort but doesn't pull away, wipes the tears and the sweat off his face and sniffles to find his voice. It comes out raspy and low, resigned, already moving on.

"You said, uh... something-- something about a family visit?"

Fingers comb through his hair, and Lucifer is conversational again, amicable.

"Yeah. My brother."

Sam lets his mouth hang open for a couple of seconds. It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise really considering the choice of words, but, in his defence, he can barely think straight.

"Michael spoke to you?"

"A little while ago, yes. He wants to see you actually."

"To see me?! Why would Michael want to see me?"

"That he didn't explain. Decades of barely acknowledging my existence and now he wants to see _you._ Hurt my feelings a little, so I turned it down."

Hurt his feelings _a lot._ Sam is pressed tight against a racing heart and he can tell. And there's a small pleasure to the knowledge, to the fact, that right now Lucifer is hurting too. 

He mouths cautiously, but also in exaggerated solidarity, "What a dick."

Lucifer huffs a brief chuckle, lowers his face to whisper against a headful of hair, "Yes. But disrespect my brother again and the number I'll do on you..."

It's not a real threat, at least not for the present moment. Sam takes it in stride anyway, "Got it. I'll be good. You sound like you're reconsidering."

And Sam is too tired, too spent, to even entertain worry. If Michael wants retribution, he's way overdue. And Sam would just love to be put out of his misery. If Michael just wants to talk, Sam's only stake in this is his own flesh and blood.

Lucifer seems to ruminate on this one a little longer than he'd like. And then he does something that happens so rarely, once every blue moon, but never fails to make Sam's heart flutter. He asks for Sam's opinion, not in the playful manner where it's a joke on Sam's expense, not like when he asks a question and expects a model answer or else. None of that. He's genuine, conflicted, unsure.

"Do you think we should?"

Sam runs through seven different answers in his head, six of which are obvious attempts at appeasement, which, coming to think of it, Lucifer will see right through and will not tolerate. Sam settles on the simple truth. 

"I'd like to see Adam..."

"And I'd want that for you. But not my call to make."

"But if you decide we'll be seeing Michael, you'll ask him, at least, please?"

"I'll let him know he's welcome to bring a plus one, sure. The rest is up to him. I don't touch what is his. He doesn't touch what is mine."

And days from now, when Sam is not starved senseless, when his cerebral functions are up and running, he would ponder on how utterly fucked up it is, that being referred to as some sort of off-limits archangel property had fallen on his ears so neutrally, roused nothing in him. But for now, he just tries for a chuckle, fails and coughs instead.

"Uh... Good to know I shouldn't worry about being smited."

"You really shouldn't, not unless I allow it."

"Aside from wanting to kill each other, you guys seem swell."

This comes out a lot less sarcastic than he intended it to be. Lucifer lets it slide, musing, almost. Preoccupied with his own ghosts. 

"Far from it, Sammy, but we're not animals."

"Then I think we should invite them over."

"Okay, buddy. Then we invite them over."

And Sam feels as though he was hit by a truck 10 times on a row, crushed and left to perish on the side of the road. Cold and weak and always on the verge of fainting, never quite there. And yet he's mad with excitement. A buzz that leaves him exhausted, but a nourishment in and of itself. 

He stares back at Dean, sitting on the counter, feet off the floor, watching quietly. He nudges Lucifer's arm, asking for permission without needing to voice the question. And Lucifer just nods.

"Dean, you coming? We're having a family reunion."

Dean purses his lips like he can't even fathom the fuckery, like this will be the worst idea in the history of ideas, like he'd rather stab himself in the eyes first. And then he's mumbling under his breath, flustered and snarky and smells just like home, "Awesome." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was recently rewatching season 15 and there's this scene between Michael and the boys where he mentions meeting Sam in the cage, and I HAD to address that. So we're getting Michael in the next chapter, yay.
> 
> I've also been thinking of Sam's post-cage hallucinations, and how mean Dean got this one time when Lucifer was playing him. I'm getting a kick out of this being entirely Sam's mind being riddled with guilt, not something that ever happened in the cage. I'm excited to discuss this part further if anyone is interested.
> 
> As always, questions, constructive criticism, and thoughts are super appreciated. I'm having fun writing this and you guys are the best!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Three Sheets to the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short bonus chapter that just came to me and I had to write before we get back to Michael.
> 
> Also, I don't know how to warn for this, but this piece romanticizes things that shouldn't be romanticized and there's temporary death and sexual content in a pretty disturbing context.

It's day forty-six thousand one hundred twenty-seven in Hell. And Sam Winchester has developed a taste for drowning.

There are two stages to the process. The first is pain and panic, and Sam has learnt to ride the former like a destination, trained himself out of the latter. Pain is something he can embrace and surrender to, let the waves of it do what they may, carve souvenirs out of his flesh, twist him into something poetic and beautiful and alive. And panic is just survival instinct gone haywire. Sam doesn't need to give in to an insistent biology that demands maintenance, that expects him to rummage through the wreckage of every affliction, to split his nails bloody scratching for an exit, for a light at the end of the tunnel. Panic is life's desperate measures in desperate times, a last-ditch effort against annihilation, and Sam is never going to truly die, so he doesn't panic anymore.

The second stage, though, is somatic death. The ultimate release from the bondage of physics and physiology. When his lungs deflate and his heart stops and his awareness floats around his body, free and weightless and infinite. A state of existence that is boundless and astral, where the sins of Man evanesce, and every regret is a distant story sweeped under the carpet of oblivion, and Sam is baptized and purified, his slate clean as new.

Sam loves it. Yearns for it. Looks forward to every bit of it every time they venture deep into the lake. When the swimming grows dull, and it's always dull in comparison, and Lucifer's eyes glint with something dark and obscene and wanton, and Sam just _knows_.

So when firm familiar hands tangle themselves in his hair and push downwards, he submerges himself under the water with a lingering grin. And when the pressure tightens around his chest, and every cell screams for oxygen, and every limb aches to flail and fight and kick and thrash, he just wills himself to stay perfectly still and feel it. Sam lets it ripple beneath his skin, the frantic urge to survive, glorious and burning and near mindless. He revels in it, in overcoming it, in the small triumph over something human and confining and obsolete.

Lucifer likes to make him cum then.

Lower leg penetrates through the inches of water that separate them, forces its way between Sam's thighs and presses flat against his cock. Sam tightens his muscles around it, something solid and cold to rub himself against and fuck into. And the friction is always minute but steady, almost too much of a tease and barely enough to get him going. But the blood coursing through him, slow and thick and carbonated, seems to rush down south regardless, all intent and purpose, filling him up, and Sam is rock hard.

Lucifer likes him to earn his orgasms.

So Sam doesn't use his hands on his cock. He does, however, grip on Lucifer's waist, fingers digging into skin, going numb and prickling with pins and needles. And he uses the stable grounded weight, motionless and reliable in the fluidity of the environment that surrounds them, to maneuver his body closer, fold himself so he's wrapped around the shin bone between his legs. He strokes his length against it, up and down, up and down, escalating in speed and ferocity as his chest constricts and his consciousness falters. He's light-headed and tingling all over, and it's a dance and masturbation and a race against time, filthy and frenzied and undignified. Sam doesn't care because it feels fucking riveting, and because he's going to die in 30 seconds and...

Lucifer likes to kill him off with a bang.

His ears are ringing and it hurts. His body needs air and his cock needs to burst and Sam channels the frantic urgency in his lungs straight down into his groin. His abdominal muscles strain around the building pressure and the pleasure eclipses the pain and he parts his lips to groan, sucks on invasive lukewarm water flooding his system with abandon and he explodes into a thousand jolts of release and euphoria and wet oppressive asphyxiation. He cums and he chokes and he dies and it's _wonderful._

Because suddenly there's no agony, no need, no toe-curling rapture, only peace. An equilibrium that becomes him. And for minutes that transcend the concept of time, Sam is allowed to just be, and he just is.

He always comes to with lips sealed onto his own, breathing life into his empty lungs.

And as resurrections go, what follows is strenuous and unpleasant. His body readjusting, expelling the water it consumed, nursing a frail will to live and a vendetta against being made to. But Sam is sturdy and adaptable and he's also so fucking grateful, a sentiment that drives him mad with tenderness, a tenderness that resides as the cornerstone of his resolve. He pushes through like a champ.

It's midnight outside and they drift aimlessly in the middle of the lake. The pond Sam created and then decided to expand because the sky is the limit and he always dreams big. The world is quiet and dreamy and Venus above their heads outshines every star, casting light and warmth onto still waters and soaked skin. And they're locked together, holding onto each other, faces buried in the crooks of necks and arms twined and tight. Something of union and oneness against the elements and, somehow, against each other.

The first words to part Lucifer's lips after are, "Welcome back, baby."

And Sam smiles, breathless and brand new, fevered with adrenaline and fresh violations and feral violence and _itchiness,_ every need and urge and want that comes with having a body that just cheated death and pressing it close and naked against another. He locks eyes with cold fire, and Lucifer is staring at him like he's a miracle, a work of art and a force of nature. He runs aggressive fingers through messy blond hair, tugs on the damp locks and wraps legs around skin that barely contains what's whirling beneath it. And before he pulls them both down and under the water again, Sam whispers, and it's not a question. 

"Again. But this time you fuck me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that I'm open for concrit whenever, wherever, because sometimes I legit have no idea what I'm doing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	8. Family Is Supposed to Make You Miserable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst, and then there's Michael.

It's day fifteen thousand two hundred four in Hell. And Sam Winchester is expecting guests.

When Lucifer is in the make-believe room that makes up the entirety of Sam's world in perdition on a good day, his presence infiltrates the very air. Every molecule of the illusion pulsates around, and straight through, waves of kinetic energy that hold the mainframe of this reality together, but also contain and penetrate it. He's everywhere and in everything, and it's a subtle electric rustle against Sam's skin, something charged and very much restrained. Because if Lucifer just lets himself be, the small room would be no more.

And when he's there, he's always too close. Never more than a few inches away. He invades every modicum of personal space with intrusive familiarity, unsettling in the ten different ways it has become naturally domestic. And the proximity is as threatening and cold and sinister as it is tranquilizing. And Sam is used to this, to intense gazes trained on him, to liberal hands administering every variation of touch: the casual and the intimate and the violent and the possessive, to punish and to hold. Sam is used to being the center of it all.

Sometimes Sam feels like an extension of Lucifer's body, an extra limb that's part of a whole, handled with the same authority, with the same nonchalance, one would treat their own flesh. And sometimes he's an experiment, or a very spoiled pet, or a toy; an object of affection or a friend or a whore.

Sam knows every pattern by heart, every escalation that leads to every routine. But he never knows exactly which to anticipate. Because Lucifer is an unpredictable ocean of moods, and there's always an invisible chain of reactions going on in the background, separate and isolated from cause and effect. Because all the Devil really needs is a whim, and Sam should brace himself for wherever the chips may fall.

"You're distant. You're very distant. Where are you?"

Sam flexes his fingers, kneads his knuckles against his thighs, bare feet glued to the floor, heavy and hesitant, restless but frozen. And his statement is more of a question, whispered with so much caution, as if every unit of sound is a jittery usure nudge at something unstable and on the verge of blowing up.

Because Lucifer has been in the room for so long, longer than he ever cared to stay. And Sam is used to seeking the company, to the consequent hurricanes of terrible or marvelous or peaceful, depending on the Devil's appetite for the day. He expects attention that washes over him and seeps into his soul, tampers with him and consumes him. But it's been quiet. Too quiet. And Lucifer hasn't spared him a look, or a word that didn't dismiss or shoo, since an invitation to Michael has been extended. And for reasons Sam would rather not address, let alone dissect, _everything_ about this hurts.

This is not a game, Sam knows. This is not orchestrated to poke at the parts of him that have been conditioned to associate Lucifer's acknowledgment or lack thereof with existing and fading, respectively. No, for once, this has nothing to do with Sam and his compromised concept of self. This is the ghost of ancient grudges and wounds that were never given proper cause to heal and _Michael_ , looming over his fallen brother with a lance, driving that one last blow, casting the once favorite son out of Heaven, and everything he's ever known how to love, and onto an eternity of dark.

Lucifer is here, but not really. And he's shielded and unapproachable and 10 fucking feet away. And the distance is a caged rabid animal, tearing at Sam's nerves, demanding to be fed.

Dean, also very much here, doesn't make any of this any easier. Big brother, constantly disappointed and heartbroken, doting on Sam like he's some sick and damaged thing, too far gone to be held accountable for his crimes. Just a lost cause on its way to the gallows. And Sam had wanted the hallucination to stay.

But now the room is too crowded, the air too heavy and the guilt too sharp.

"Lucifer, will you talk to me?"

"Don't be exhausting, Sam. Your brother won't shut up; talk to him."

When Dean talks, it's loud and unapologetic and always on the offence in ways Sam never knew how to be. Dean is passion and recklessness and a love so overbearing it's suffocating because it's undeserved. And Sam knew how to tread this love before, how to melt into the shadow of a brother who thought the world of him, and expected the world from him. Before everything, when he'd allow himself to be protected and scolded and watched over like a child with a grenade, when he'd toil away to shoulder the debt and justify the sacrifices he wasn't worthy of and never asked for.

_Except that one time. Except that one time when he ran and ran and ran and Dean didn't follow. Because Sam wasn't owed happiness or the choice to pursue any. He just needed to be alive and there and good and still fighting._

And Dean is emotions that snowball into battles he'd never forfeit. And Sam was a battle and a quest and a destination, everything that has ever meant something and everything that has ever mattered: his baby brother and his son and his charge. And, a lifetime ago, that was enough. For every time Sam strayed in secret and then strived to make amends, Dean had kept him straight, kept him upright and grounded and sane. But none of this applies here. And Sam chokes on his excuses every time he tries to explain. And Dean is not real.

"Tell me about Michael?"

Sam is grappling with a compulsive need to cut through the rivers and mountains and deserts unending between him and the archangel across the room. But it's only five steps, because, yes, he counted, and it's three strides at worst and Sam is too apprehensive, too worn out and transparent, to move a single inch onwards and pretend it's anything but self-serving.

On better days, Lucifer would like this. He would foster the dependency and nurture it. Because for everything that is and for all the Devil's vices and guilty pleasures, he cherishes nothing more than to be sought out freely. And it's not like he hasn't played with it before, dangled carrots and sticks and kindness and cruelty and watched the boy strain and slave and spin in circles to earn any.

But this is not it, and Lucifer is a million miles away to indulge. Even when the gust of utter yearning is almost tempting.

He cocks his head, expression rigid and harsh and dripping with hostility, and he blinks exactly once, as if the question, or the noise, or Sam's mere existence is something that hacks at patience he's already running low on. As if he's resisting the urge to pluck tongues out and sew lips shut.

"He'll be here soon, Sammy, and then you'll see."

And Sam can already see: graphic threats he's learnt to translate on sight, tucked between the words, intoned and emphasized and nonverbal. Implicit warnings and irritability and something repressed and white-hot and terrifying, toppling on the edges of self-control. And Sam should really shut the fuck up, should stay quiet and still and on his toes, should pray that gnawing at his nails, and the bruises he pinches into his own flesh, and every other small way in which he self-destructs to shove down the need and the panic and remain perfectly pliable, is not an invitation for more destruction.

Despite the inclination, the promise of violence that trickles into the air is tight and on a leash. Because Lucifer doesn't want to hurt him, even if he really wants to, not when Michael is almost, _almost_ , here. And personal preferences aside, the Devil is well-versed enough in the social contract, especially that with his own brother, to recognize that blood and tears are not everyone's idea of a good time. But it's barely even that. It's jealousy and ownership and something possessive and territorial and vigilant. Because Sam's suffering is private and intimate, and it's theirs and theirs alone to claim, and Lucifer is above taking what is his and making a show of it or putting it on display.

Sam knows this because Lucifer told him. Soft whispers against his ears when he was still curled on himself grovelling for something to eat and for the pain to stop. Right before a touch of archangel grace, the cosmic equivalent of sweet, sweet morphine injected intravenously and shooting straight through his veins, mitigated the hunger into something dull and distant. Just a vague awareness of all the ways a human can be hollowed out and left wanting: an all-body itch, never truly scratched, but something Sam can soldier through.

There are several ways to starve, Sam is aware and the awareness bites, and some of them are worse than others.

Michael as an insurance policy is a vulgar thought to entertain. This is too raw and, in a way, also too familiar, and Sam doesn't have it in him to take advantage. He just wants to draw closer, and bask in the proximity for what it is and what it offers, demand nothing more of it, or of him.

Eventually, when he's more urgent want than caution, he does just that. Five steps, and he can't go too fast, can't disturb the stillness or dent the silence. Tentative and too tense to breathe properly. He rests a hand on the top rail of the chair right next to Lucifer's, and he lets the question ask itself. Blue irises settle on him and darken, expecting a provocation that doesn't come, and Sam locks eyes with the Devil, waiting.

And then Lucifer sighs and scoffs, and he sounds so incredibly tired, "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam tries to school his tone into something casual and easy and not at all still very much starved, "It's too warm on the other side of the room."

This is the truth, albeit a version less incriminating than _my skin aches for you._

But Lucifer always knows, knows every dirty little secret, and all the feelings too obscene to share. The ones Sam buries far and deep until they're forced out of him with a gun to his head. And there's always a gun to his head. Except this time, there isn't.

Lucifer is gracious enough to allow the words the guise of detachment, to not drag the sentiment and strip it off pretenses. Because he could, if he wanted, wrest the sick, sick longing out of every sound and lay it bare on the table, make it today's homework and song, brand it on the very heart that aims to conceal it.

He doesn't. He just hums, taps a foot against the hardwood floor, "Fine. Sit."

Sam sinks down and sits back on his heels. Always a little too fidgety like this, self-conscious and unsure, like his body is spare parts and he doesn't know what to do with his limbs. So he defaults to autopilot, because this is an invitation, and they've done this a hundred times before, and Sam knows the do's and don'ts and it's not like he's not grateful. And if Dean weren't here watching, he would have probably showed it.

He leans in, presses himself against the angel on the chair, as much of himself as the space and the angle and plausible deniability would allow. And gently, slowly, he lowers his head to rest it on Lucifer's thigh. The first skin contact, the chill that runs through his bones as if his bones are exactly where it belongs, is clean undiluted relief. And Sam whispers, low and soft and too, too much heat, "Thank you."

Lucifer responds with a hand splayed on Sam's eyes. Firm and resolved, with purpose, but not forceful. And this is an answer to a question Sam was attempting to ask but couldn't. And he holds his breath, because he knows what's coming.

Something flows and resonates. And Sam is tuned in to a distant radio signal on a hundred different frequencies, all transmitting at the same time, in a language alien and extinct and primeval. A point in ancient history, with the quality of a memory, seeps into him and burns. An acute awareness that simmers in his guts, an aftertaste on his tongue, and a knowledge, fragmented and yet concrete, in the back of his head. It's acid and dust and cosmic rays, tsunamis of bloodshed without the blood. And lightning and thunder and immense power and brute force; rage so paramount it eclipsed the Sun, when the planet almost fractured under the weight of a divine war. And hurt, too much hurt, inked on the fabric of the universe, a million years ago, and a million years to come.

But not the fall. Never the final exile. Lucifer wouldn't do this to him. Because he made a promise, half a century ago, to not break him and he intends to keep it.

Lucifer is mourning a devastating loss; and Sam is hyperventilating, and he's listening, and he can feel it all.

"Michael is... blind unwavering faith. Heaven's glory and God's righteous fury. Grace and elegance, Sam, invincible, and a beautiful, beautiful warrior."

Sam's heart thuds with a love so forlorn, and not at all his to claim. There's nothing to say and language is inadequate and small and the mere suggestion of consolation verges on insulting. Sam claws at his own chest like he wants to rip it open.

"He raised me. He was more my father than my father ever was. We built worlds together. And I trusted him. Always. For millenia, Sam, in the cage, I thought he'd come for me."

And then Sam's heart is clenching with resentment so old and so brutal it's crushing, and he wants to break and scream and burn the entire universe to ashes and bathe in the woes of a thousand souls and it wouldn't even compare. He's drowning in a sea of tar, and before he forgets the words, he cries out frantically, reasoning with pure spite and vengeance and carnage so, so justified.

"He betrayed you. And if you ask him, he'd say you betrayed him first. And Lucifer, please please please... where we are now, does it matter who started what?"

"Sam..."

"No, no, I'm not talking forgiveness. Hell, keep the resentment and let it fester, but push it aside. It doesn't mean anything here. Lucifer, please, it doesn't mean anything here. And-- and it's what we do, you and I, for each other, right? Right?"

For the first time in who knows how many days it's been, Lucifer actually smiles. Sam can hear it in his voice, malignant and dark and hungry. A distraction on a silver platter.

"You still resent me, Sammy?"

Sam is filled to the brim with poison that isn't his and shambles that are. And he needs to breathe and Lucifer needs to heal and the empathy is a coiled and twisted thing and he can't tell where he ends and the Devil begins until he's spilling it all out. The tragedies that made him who he is and the lines he crossed to neutralize them, all the little tricks he plays on himself and how he buries his head in the sand because he wants to survive the despair and the loneliness and _himself_. The seething pile of hate and lacerations that has become him, oozing pus and guilt and blood and violence, with no outlet and no respite.

"I don't think I'll ever stop. Just as you'll never forgive me for us being here. God, I have, uh... I have spent decades picturing myself making you pay. For mom, for Jess, for everything you took away and contaminated and destroyed. I visualize scenarios where I-- I rip you to fucking pieces and have you live through it. And the resentment is ugly and toxic and it's fucking cancer, Lucifer... it burns me on the inside out. So I push it aside. Because if I don't push it aside, if I don't pretend it's not even there... Lucifer, if i don't smile and forget and understand, god how I try to understand, then it's an eternity of bitterness and misery and defeat. And I can't-- I can't live like that. How do you live like that? Why would you live like that?"

And Lucifer is calmer, and the fire burning cold beneath his skin is dwindling. Not because there's a moral to this story, or that Sam's experience is even slightly relevant or comparable. It's Sam's brand of goodness, of endurance, refreshing and juvenile and desperate and heartwarming. And it always manages to placate him. And as it goes, Sam is placated by proxy. It's what they do for each other, even when they intend to bruise.

And this is a joke Lucifer is in on as he says it, "All that pent-up rage, Sammy, doesn't sound healthy to sweep it under the rug."

Sam is chuckling, sharp and nervous and grim and just a tad bit mad, "We're in Hell. Forever. Fuck healthy; I'll take whatever peace I can get. And you should too."

There's a hand in his hair now, ruffling it, like he's a child and this is beyond his comprehension, like the argument is too simplistic and naive but altogether endearing. And Lucifer is almost affectionate when he asks, with the breezy certainty that comes with power unconcerned and unbothered, "So you wanna rip me to pieces, huh?"

"Just a-- uh recurring fantasy."

"I'll let you do that sometime."

Patronizing, yes, but Sam appreciates the gesture. And he's breathing again, and he's shedding the havoc that roiled beneath his rib cage like it's magic.

"That would be nice..."

This is not problem solving; it's a confessional. And there's release to the ugly truths that slip past trembling lips. Like how fickle and corrupt this tenderness is, and how it's a survival mechanism and a necessity and a reparation that goes both ways. Like how utterly vulnerable the Devil can be, and how he loves with the same lethal passion he hates.

They fall silent again. Until the whirlwind of emotions settles into a stream. And fingers stroke Sam's hair, on and off, curl and tug and caress. And then Lucifer is resigned, and he's ready for a confrontation he didn't know he was avoiding.

"When Michael is here, you won't so much as breathe until I tell you to."

"Okay."

"It will hurt. Him being inside your head. He won't fit like I do. It'll feel foreign and unfamiliar and disorienting. I want you to bear it; will you?"

"Yes."

"Alright, buddy. Get up then. I'll let him in."

Sam pulls up and instinctively steps back to gather himself, inhaling and blinking and running anxious hands in his hair, finger-brushing the static electricity and the cold and _Lucifer's stamp of_ _approval_ out of the disheveled waves. He turns to glance at Dean, and he's not sure what he's expecting to see there. But Dean is impassive, and he only mutters the simplest of observations, all matter-of-factly, like he's finally throwing in the towel.

"You're playing house with the Devil, Sammy."

And for all the love he reserves for Dean and Dean alone, and for how much he misses his stupid fucking face and the honesty that stings, Sam would rather be skinned alive than have him here a moment longer.

It's two minutes until he can feel it: the essence of archangel in close, close vicinity to his soul. Similar to Lucifer's only in how it seems to precede time. But whereas Lucifer's is icy fire and brilliance and a tornado of unrestrained power and disarray and beauty and darkness and a taste of an entity so wronged it wears the scars like a shield, Michael's is equilibrium and durability, composure and solidity, rigid and impenetrable and omnipotent, wistful in the way only a being older than the known universe can be, crestfallen in the way only a wounded military chief in the throes of a losing battle can be.

And then it's an earthquake and a rupture and Sam can't keep his balance or his wits. And he stumbles mindlessly towards the danger that is familiar and recognizable and would only ruin him with calculation and methodology because it loves him. He presses his lips and tenses every muscle, because he said he'll bear this. And Lucifer nods reassurances and promises that Sam knows will withstand every test. When, if, it ever comes down to it, Sam knows he'll be protected where it counts.

The door creaks and Adam walks in.

Except it's not Adam. And nothing about this human manifestation suggests humanity.

"Brother."

"Lucifer, Sam... this is a strange setting."

Michael is scanning the room like it's a war zone waiting to unravel. And he's clinical and impersonal, all stiffness in a fashion that defies biology. He doesn't breathe and he doesn't blink, and the glow in his eyes, azure and eternal, is barely contained in the sockets of the imaginary vessel.

It hurts, like Lucifer said it would. Something invasive and heavy and deeply uncomfortable. And, somewhere on the cellular level, Sam is trying to expel the alienness that violates his very being. But it's not the absolute worst thing that has happened to him this week alone, So he endures it like he said he would.

Lucifer slips back into the old tongue, his intonation formal and entirely joyless. And the conversation that follows is charged and tense, like the two brothers are tiptoeing around each other, hands on proverbial guns, waiting for any sign of foul play to shoot first.

Sometimes Sam thinks Enochian is exclusively designed for prayers and veiled threats. A language of worship and war and if you didn't do the first, you were cornered into the second by default. It's heartbreaking in all the ways it didn't have to be like this. And Sam looks at them and knows: there is no middle ground, and 'hashing it out' is a ridiculous human notion that God's first children were never afforded the luxury of.

_And Michael can't see Dean. Lucifer wouldn't let him that far in. Wouldn't give him front seats to Sam's madness and his complete and utter self-loathing. Those are private too. And Lucifer gets to toy with them or beat them out of the cracked head that conjured them. But he's the only one who gets to, and Sam's grateful for the small dignity._

He doesn't make a sound, and he doesn't take his eyes off of the reunion that was millenia overdue. Feels like a take-your-kid-to-work day and Sam remains polite and quiet and doesn't interrupt the adults. Until it's been a few minutes of pithy exchanges and an eruption waiting to happen, and Lucifer turns to him, pursing his lips like he really, really tried.

"Adam is no show. But he's fine. Michael keeps him asleep and well."

Sam stares at him like he doesn't understand, so he says it again, slower this time, "Your brother is safe."

"Can I talk to him? Even if in a dream, if he'll--"

"Not happening, Sammy."

This need to check on the youngest Winchester is not entirely altruistic. Sure, Sam would like a moment with his brother, mostly to apologize for the unfortunate bloodline and the curse that comes with it. Because Adam is an innocent, the only member of the group who truly never asked for this. One day, decades or centuries ago, John brought an accidental child to the world, and now the child is in Hell paying his dues. And everything about this is heart-wrenching and is somehow _Sam's fault_ , but that's not just it, and the disappointment is a selfish intrinsic thing. Sam had wanted the temporary company of another human, any human, someone else who is also here and also real; someone to validate his identity and his weakness and the humanity he clings to because it defines him.

_But Adam is safe and he's sleeping through Hell and that should be good enough._

And so Sam nods his thanks and pulls a chair to sit, suddenly too exhausted to maintain any interest in why Michael is here. Regardless, for reasons that still burn through his chest, he's hoping beyond hope that this meeting offers a semblance of closure to the Devil. If Lucifer is at peace, he might...

It doesn't look like it though. Because Lucifer is still taut, the solar flares of a thousand suns, bright and furious behind his eyes. And Sam knows they can see each other beyond what he can see. And that anything that goes unaddressed is intentionally so, and not for the lack of insight or motive.

Michael inches towards the table, and he takes a seat too.

"Sam Winchester. I wonder if you have any idea how mangled your soul is."

And Lucifer is watchful, sharp, and Sam checks with him first before he speaks. And then he's dry and curt and he's dismissing _that_ thought before it sticks.

"I really don't. Thought I was Hell's poster child for well-being and prosperity. How can I help you?"

If the snippy note is a punishable offence, Lucifer lets it slide and he's smiling. But Michael is all business, and, as ambiguous as his end-game is, he's not here to socialize. At least that much is clear.

"Listen, Sam, I don't suppose any of us here is enjoying being here. This was not supposed to happen; you defied a grand plan beyond your small human scope and we've all failed Father. I don't expect you to understand the gravity of your sin, but I expect you to have been here long enough to see reason and seek redemption."

Sam offers one of those nervous smiles that flash for a fraction of a second and then vanish.

"Huh. You're here about Armageddon. Again. You think we're on timeout and God's waiting for me to beg forgiveness and promise to play ball and then it's a do-over."

"I don't think. I know. This is punishment, Sam, and it's deserved; it's not abandonment."

Lucifer chimes in, all amusement and boyish grins, "A bold assumption, even for you, brother."

"We're in stalemate, Sam. And this isn't forever. If you pray, Father will listen. You're his chosen children. He'll listen."

For the briefest of moments there, Michael sounds desperate. Like all his prayers have gone unanswered and he's stooping so low even attempting at a negotiation with the unworthy. Like he's run out of options and he's biting the bullet because he's at the brink of his tolerance. And he just _needs_ to get the fuck out of here.

And Sam can almost sympathize with the sentiment, but he's too tired, too drained, to entertain faith in a God that has never been on his side. To argue the reality of what this is, and expect a scenario that isn't the same old deal: a fateful "yes" and the end of the world.

Michael isn't offering a way out. He's pushing for submission and repentance, and perhaps, perhaps, God is watching. And perhaps this is salvation. But for the million times Sam had said "yes" in the cage and meant it, he thought he was past this. He thought he left the world outside behind, safe and intact and free, and his choices here are inconsequential. Because it's all over and he can finally allow himself to break, bear the brunt of giving in, him and him alone. Let it all go and be dismantled and owned and reshaped, because, sometimes, "yes" is easy and "yes" is painless and he's right here and it's forever and none of it matters.

But outside, life goes on. The Sun rises and sets and nature sustains itself and people, oblivious and flawed and all too human, walk the streets as if the world never needs saving. And outside, Dean is real, and "yes" is death and annihilation and the final chapter of the story.

"No."

"No?"

"I don't believe anyone is listening, Michael. And if anyone is, it's still no."

"You'll condemn us to an eternity of this?"

"Already done. And I know, I know, Michael. You don't belong here. This-- banishment, damnation, what have you, is beneath you. And I'm sorry. But settle in and get used to it, because we're never getting out."

And Lucifer looks so proud, so fucking proud. Sam can't even fathom why. Because this doesn't bode well for him either, and it's still Sam standing in the way, even if this is a ridiculous hypothetical and Michael needs to hold onto the faith for dear life or else the darkness will devastate him. Needs to believe that this is tough love and a test, that he's not forgotten, that he's not just as doomed as his fallen brother.

"I can make you."

He huffs, all rage, all desperation, and an acknowledgment of something ugly and hopeless that should sink in and rebuild the bridges that burnt. Except it never does, and God's first son is coming undone too. And Sam is drawing back slowly at the threat, and Lucifer is standing tall, a hint of sorrow swimming adrift in the angry sea of red in his eyes. A possessive claim and protecting what is his and a culmination of eons of repressed violence and accusations whirling in dark claustrophobic corners with nowhere to go but here. He spits the name like a warning.

"Michael."

"Lucifer..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a nightmare to write. I have no idea why, but there you go. If you have thoughts or feedback to share, I'll appreciate the hell out of it!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Mr. Sandman Brings Me a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy so please be warned: Graphic Torture, Mild(?) Gore.

It's day fifty-eight thousand seven hundred thirty in Hell. And Sam Winchester is a case study and a work in progress.

For the most part, there is no purpose to the torture. It's not a manifestation of rage, not payback for all the times Sam has failed him, not a grand scheme to manipulate an already malleable reality into a binary system of rights and wrongs or rewards and punishments. Lucifer thrives in grey areas and moral ambiguities, and there are several versions of his truth and his forgiveness, as there are several faces to him. Sam knows this, knows when the tangled web of all that is Lucifer is expecting an apology, or an answer, or devotion and loyalty and love that transcend his good and evil and accept him unconditionally. And he also knows when it's just sadism.

When it is, Lucifer doesn't come with medieval-themed tools of mutilation on his person, not when his hands are just as efficient, and a lot more personal. Customized instantly and on demand: fingers and nails to slice and tear and brand and maim. All the might of archangel, employed at will, to slam or suspend or pin down, burn or freeze or crush, everything that was once human and is made into something less. Teeth and tongue and cock, when the occasion calls for intimacy intent on devastation and Sam has been begging for it, in every variation of words he can muster, in the seven ancient languages he now masters, because it's the least of many, and much worse, horrors.

Sam thinks there's a duality there that Lucifer deems a representation. How fond the Devil is of contrasts: when the same hand that damages heals, and when Sam is sucking on fingers drenched in his own blood, so eager and so grateful because it's almost over, with another arm still elbow deep in his chest. That Lucifer would find it romantic.

But it's not always fun and games and sentimentalities; sometimes, it's education.

Because Sam, bless his fervent heart, comes with a hierarchy of needs, and if he didn't have his little accomplishments, stimulation and milestones and side-quests to complete and celebrate, the light in his otherwise bright eyes withers and wanes, and the bottomless pit of despair that follows through overflows and submerges the proverbial room, and the despondency is an unfavorable outcome for everyone involved. Lucifer relates to this drive; and he caters for it because he understands it. And Sam is always hungry for more, takes what he's given and absorbs it, excels at it. A miracle like that and an exceptional student, be it with an extinct language or the secrets the Earth never spilled. Millennia of literature and science and music and natural history. The last universal common ancestor before life settled on evolution as the surefire way to move forward. And the hundred different monstrosities that roamed the planet before Adam and Eve could ever set foot there and lay claim to what was never really theirs. Knowledge and answers and revelations that never made their way to books and are now offered freely in exclusive packages and private screenings.

As it so happens, the Lightbringer is a very, very good teacher, and when he does bring tools to the party, they're not merely for the visual effects. Lucifer calls them learning aids, and he calls it a lesson, field practice, a pop quiz.

But self-actualization is the one territory Sam doesn't know how to navigate himself through, doesn't always catch it: the point or the gist or the "why hurt me? I get it. I swear. Please!" That it's growing pains and a metamorphosis and _necessary_ in all the ways it's unpleasant. That when Sam is given crayons and clay and freedom and creation that are limitless within limits, it's training wheels and positive reinforcement and a permission to fly. And when it's all taken away, and humanity and dignity and everything that isn't endless suffering and pure unadulterated misery are distant memories that sting to recall, it's guidance and direction and burning ships that should never have sailed. A gentle nudge, to focus on what's important, to denounce the ridiculous notion of the crucified Christ, reach neutral grounds where there's meaning and sense and value beyond martyrdom and original sins.

Sam never loses his mind because Lucifer isn't wasteful. Because there's potential and a future and a hundred thousand scenarios where this could have been a partnership instead of a purgatory.

And for the centuries past and the centuries to come, the "could have been" is an abstract concept that perseveres, always in the background and always there. And Sam is allowed colors and space and possibilities and an entire universe at the tips of his fingers, to expand and shrink as he pleases, to mold something tangible out of his dreams. Because he could have ruled the world. Could have been a god with galaxies at his feet and Lucifer in his corner. Could have had it all and he didn't want it. Chose an eternity in a locked box instead.

There is an apology there that Sam owes himself. But Sam can't seem to see it yet, so wrapped up in all the apologies he owes everyone else. And if Lucifer wasn't patient, and so, so invested, this would have been the kind of frustration to wear even the Devil out.

And so the box is literal, and it's also a learning tool and a metaphor and a symbol. And this entire exercise might as well be an analogy, drawn in concrete parallels, vulgar in how crystal clear it is, almost condescending in how it spells it all out. Because this isn't manipulation; it's a statement and an open conversation, an old lapse of judgment scrutinized for what it is and what motivated it. And Sam doesn't need to forget or deny or mumble sorrys he doesn't really mean. This isn't a truth that can be forced out of him; it's a truth they can find together. And Sam just needs to dig deeper, to slow down and introspect, to listen.

It's a process and a journey and a treasure hunt, long and gruesome and cruel in all the ways a reality check can, should, be. And it does demand participation, because the only way out is through. And it's not like Sam is unwilling, or that there is energy left in him to resist meddling hands. But the box and what it stands for and the slew of questions it brings to the table are too, too much. Too much pain and too much horror and too much ugliness, too little room to breathe. And Sam doesn't know how to survive or endure any of it to draw the right conclusion, or how to twist himself into the model answer Lucifer ultimately wants to make it stop.

Not when a random glance at the small metal crate in the corner has him curled on himself screaming like he's demented until his vocal cords fail to maintain the volume. Not when his entire reality boils down to a vicious need to flee and disappear at the mere mention, and he's trying to throw himself off of the balcony, or banging his head against the wall, or praying to the only god who would listen to just obliterate every bit of consciousness that would otherwise live long enough to go inside the box again. Not when he's slitting his own throat open, spilling his guts out, stabbing at his own heart, and falling to Lucifer's feet soaked in blood and hysteria, offering to take himself apart piece by piece because _anything else but not again_.

But there's no escape hatch to oblivion and negotiation is as deluded as it is futile. This is going to keep happening. And until something clicks and Lucifer is satisfied, the box stays. Navy blue because it compliments the drapes. A shiny unthreatening cube in essence, four cubic feet of what Hell _could have been_ in actuality.

"I'm trying, trying-- Lucifer, you can see that I'm trying, right?"

And Sam is running his hands through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, knuckles tightening around sweaty strands like he wants to pluck them out. He paces the room back and forth, anxiety and adrenaline fueling his restlessness, and the need, the mindless urge, to crawl out of his skin is twisting his insides with a savage grip. And now he just wants to throw up.

Lucifer shrugs, "Yeah, you're not getting that A for effort, Sammy."

_Help me then._

_Tell me what to say and I'll say it. Tell me what to feel and I'll feel it._

But Sam doesn't vocalize this plea again. Because the pathetic display of willingness might work with other objectives, but not here. And Sam could be absolutely fucking receptive, all ears and undivided attention, but the cooperation alone doesn't earn him any leniency points. This isn't a truth Lucifer wants parroted back at him; it's a conclusion that should be mined out from the deepest parts of himself that Sam subconsciously refuses to acknowledge.

"Say, buddy, we getting in that box sometime today?"

Muscles twitch and tense and the tremors in Sam's legs make his knees buckle and Lucifer is staring at him like he's just being _difficult._ Stubborn and unreasonable and making things harder on himself on principle. And it's not that Sam expects sympathy or that the hint of any wouldn't sicken him to his stomach, knowing it changes nothing really, but there's still hurt there. Beyond what is to come and why it's supposedly necessary, the disregard hurts. The detached expression and the clinical apathy and the casual cruelty, all of it, like there was never anything else there, stings like a deep personal betrayal.

Terror gives way to feral rage and Sam has nothing left to lose so he might as well.

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck everything that you are. Fuck your lessons and your scraps of kindness and the sappy crap you spew at me like any of it ever means jack shit, like you can _feel_ , like you don't have a black hole for a heart. I'll never forgive you for this... god I-"

And then his chest is heaving, and Lucifer is watching his meltdown like it's a soap opera, melodrama that invokes nothing but mild amusement. A little funny and a little embarrassing. And Sam just feels so fucking alone, and helpless and claustrophobic and stupid and he can't will the tears away.

He sobs like he can't bear it. Because, in every sense of the word, he cannot bear it. And he staggers towards Lucifer, wraps himself around him, mouths kisses and prayers against the impenetrable cold. Face and neck and chest. He clutches on him like he needs him. Like there's a savior there behind the walls of indifference that Sam is trying to reach out to. Because Lucifer has always been salvation, even when he orchestrates the very doom Sam needs deliverance from.

It's not a hail Mary, and there's no agenda. Sam is just pure instinct and childlike wishfulness.

"You have me, all of me. And I love you, love you, love you. Please, don't do this to me. Please, Lucifer, not again."

He snuggles in closer, holds the Devil's hand to his lips, kisses on knuckles and fingertips, so slow and so careful, like he fucking worships him, other fist still tight around fabric, grabbing on him as if a life raft and an ultimate choice, face contorting with violent declarations and heart beating out an insane rhythm. Like he's already given in and they could just be happy. Like there's another way.

Lucifer lets him. But he's stiff and blank and there's no give to him, nothing there to hold on to. His tone is flat and uninterested and whatever Sam is selling, he's not buying it, "This isn't all of you, no."

"Promise, promise, I--"

"Your love is a cop-out, Sam. And it's not enough."

Sam sniffles and shakes and chews on the inside of his cheeks until he tastes blood and futility. He wears the desperation on his sleeve, lets it drip with every syllable, disheartened and exhausted and clueless.

"What would be enough? Tell me. If I mean anything to you at all, tell me. _What do you want_?"

Lucifer's lips twitch at the corner, fold into a small warm smile. Almost involuntary, almost affectionate. Because the emotional blackmail and the dejection are juvenile and so fucking endearing and sometimes Lucifer can't help himself. And if it's reassurance that Sam needs to get through this and cross to the other side victorious, well, he'll throw him a bone.

"I want your everything. And I want to give you my everything. I want you to understand why it is what it is. I want you to allow us to be. And I can't hold your hand through this one, Sammy. Can't let you live out a wet dream on borrowed time and pretend it's survival. And if it has to hurt to get us there, then I suppose that's fine. Because I'm here and I'll heal you. And I'll make you all good and new and beautiful again. And you'll be ten times stronger for it. Okay, Sammy? Okay, baby?"

And this isn't fair but it's not unwelcome. Because whatever calm Lucifer can whisper into him, in words and grace and softness that engulf him and make the prospect of inconceivable pain sound worth it, it's not real and it changes nothing. And it will dissipate in a minute when the real terror begins. But Sam leans into it anyway. Because where else would he go?

Lucifer nudges him off to his feet gently. Except Sam's legs can't carry him and gravity is pulling on him, wants to swallow him whole and hide him, protect him. And Sam wants to curl in the fetal position and scream and kick until he's spared, or until he's dust and nothing and there's no awareness left to suffer what is coming. But Lucifer is holding his hand tight and he's keeping him up, and he's walking them both to the box anyway.

"Tell me you'll do your best. Tell me you'll try harder."

"I'll do my best. I'll try harder."

"Atta boy. You're brave and gorgeous and we're going for a hike afterwards."

Sam nods automatically, eyes darting away from the crate standing innocently a couple of inches below his knees. Won't think about the inevitable just yet. Will focus on the after and the before and the months in between when he's spoiled rotten because Lucifer says he deserves the world.

Lucifer crouches and pulls the lid open, "Alright. Come on, champ."

And so Sam steps in silently, lowers himself down to sit, knees pressed tight to his chest. Because _it's too fucking small_ , and Sam despises how big he is, how all 6ft 4 of him can never fit inside. How his long limbs won't bend back far enough to accomodate the space. How Lucifer has to tear tendons and ligaments and grind a bone here or there to fold him nice and snug and stuff him all in.

And then Lucifer is asking conversationally, punctuating the words with a playful tap on the respective parts that may require adjustments.

"Spine and knees or shoulders and ankles? Which did we do last time?"

"Shoul-- latter."

"Ahh, but then we had to do your neck too. Which did you prefer?"

"Not, not my back."

"Oh-kay."

Sam whimpers and holds his breath and firm fingers press against damp skin and the connective tissues beneath it snap and tear. Blood clots and bruises form and bones are popped out of their sockets, heavy and free and unsupported. And the human body is so flexible like this, with barely anything holding its parts together, a skeleton or a marionette to twist and twine and knot, rearrange it in every shape and form, stick it where it wouldn't otherwise go. It's bolts of lightning and searing-hot bullets and it's pain and systematic demolition and a terrible throbbing that spreads and prevails. And it's debasing and dehumanizing and sickly in the way it steals mobility and morphology and the very infrastructure that makes a human human. And Sam had promised himself to save the screaming for later but he just can't stop wailing.

His head is tucked between his thighs, which is where it will stay for the rest of this exercise, neck fractured at the base of the skull, useless. Lucifer forces it up by the hair roots because Sam can't lift it if he tries. And this part, this part requires eye contact.

"Do you deserve mercy?"

Sam blinks and swallows and quivers and he's the picture of utter misery if there was ever one.

"Nn-not yet."

"What do you deserve?"

His vision is swimming and the figure before him shifts in and out of focus. He keeps his eyes straight, because Lucifer's voice always dulls the pain when he wants it to and sometimes he'd grant the small kindness for good behavior alone. He tries to breathe, to rummage through the white noise for the answer he knows by heart.

"Love and acceptance and power and knowledge and free will."

The figure hums, pleased, and Sam can feel it. Always feels it when Lucifer is proud.

"And I give you those?"

"Yess, Lucifer, yes-- always."

Now Sam isn't in a position to question impulsive, or indoctrinated, answers. But if he were, it's doubtful he'd have answered differently. When they're good, and they're good often, Lucifer lets him toy with raw power he can barely contain, injects him with insight and awareness and vision, metaphysical and timeless and so far beyond the limited scope of human senses and mental capacity. And in all the ways that matter, Sam is accepted and seen. And in all the ways that don't, Sam's choices are his and his alone.

And for reasons that escape his understanding, Lucifer does love him. Sam couldn't really believe it until he felt it. Every time Lucifer's grace is inside him and the tenderness washes over him like waterfalls. Love and softness and _belonging_ , overwhelming and boundless. Infinite in all the ways Sam can't perceive infinity, above and beyond time and space and reason. Sam could never comprehend why or how or when, but it's so fucking beautiful and the mere thought of it fills him up and burns behind his eyes, warmth and joy and peace and everything good and brilliant and easy, when Lucifer isn't actively ruining him.

"And I make you happy?"

Sam rasps, all honesty, no hesitation, "More than anything."

Lucifer presses his lips. Not quite a smile, but almost. He leans in closer, and for a few seconds he just looks at him, and then he's answering a question Sam didn't even verbalize.

"Because you're mine and you're created in my image. And I chose you before God made you. My prince and my legacy and my missing piece."

And then his fingers uncurl and Sam's head falls in place. And Sam is trembling with limerence so sudden and so invasive and so much more than his heart can withstand. He doesn't know if it's him or Lucifer or if there's any legitimacy to the distinction. Feels like a thousand stars exploded within him and he's too broken and too distraught to put it all together and have it make sense.

But as monopolizing as the onslaught of feelings is, what comes next, and Sam knows what comes next, takes precedence. And Lucifer is whispering, "Sweet dreams, Sammy," and the lid is closed shut and Sam can't feel him anymore, and it hurts and it's terrifying and this is it and _no no no no no no_.

Because now the box is on fire and the metal is heating up and Sam is bellowing before it even starts to burn because this is it and he can't move a muscle and he can't get out and there's no escaping this, no riding it out, and Sam doesn't deserve mercy just yet. And it will get worse and worse and worse until there's nothing but the trapped smoke and the slow roasting and the scorching heat and the burning flesh and agony so insurmountable it consumes everything else and hollows it out. And in the moment, and it feels like a moment and it feels like an eternity, there's no past or future or language or reason. No rational thoughts or enough cognizance to pray. Just the now and the madness and the pain and the simple primal recognition that it's unbearable and it needs to stop.

And when skin blisters and blood boils and everything is melting, and Sam is a heap of exposed nerves and charred disconnected bones and an awareness without identity, that's when the nightmares come. Right behind his eyelids first until those are gone too and it's just flashes of gore flickering in his very soul. Images Sam can't stomach and can't shake off. Memories of lives Sam didn't live but will suffer through anyway. The trauma of every man, woman, child, beheaded or mutilated or drowned or burnt or ripped to pieces and raped. The atrocities of every war and every revolution and every crime of passion, every instance of senseless violence and unwarranted bloodshed, and every human that was ever trapped, murdered, tortured, brutalized, disfigured, hanged, drawn, and quartered at the hands of another. The collective sum of humankind's depravity and carnage and barbarism, anguish and dread and despair.

Sam never remembers his name after.

When he's out and whole again and Lucifer has built him up from the ashes because he likes him pretty and intact and responsive. And it takes Sam a while to register his body, that he has limbs and parts and organs that stay on the inside, nails and functional vocal cords and a beating heart. And he doubles over and curls on himself and howls and dry heaves, tries to scratch his eyes out because he can still _see._ And then Lucifer removes the damage, lets the memory stay.

"How do you feel?"

_Like pollution and poison and something tainted and defiled and contaminated. Like the air is toxins and fumes and I'm suffocating and everything is dark and grim and ugly and bloody and I can't see past it, can't find anything worth fighting for. Want to die want to die want to die._

Sam keeps his face buried in his palms, bile at the back of his throat and a crushing heaviness against his chest, wants to be small and invisible and nonexistent, "Dirty."

Lucifer crouches in front of him, face scrunched up like he understands, and he presses a finger-pad against Sam's heart, still a freight train, thudding like it wants out, like it wants to stop, "Let's get you cleaned up?"

"Yes. Yes. Please."

And Sam is too grief-stricken, shuddering with disgust and repulsion and the aftertaste of all the darkness he always knew existed but chose to turn a blind eye to so he can sleep better at night. Weight and burden and mourning, and his slumped shoulders, too weak and too tired to change anything or save everyone.

He accepts any comfort he's given and clings to it, needy and panicked and desperate for the magic blue pill that will make it all go away. And Lucifer obliges, showers him in grace and acceptance and light and forgiveness and healing. And it feels like an embrace. Like colors and fresh air and rehabilitation and somewhere to call home.

Sometimes Sam wishes it was a strategy. A cycle of abuse and tenderness designed specifically to compromise him. A ploy and a lie and manipulation. Something he can begrudgingly succumb to because he has no other choice. Something he can detest and blame on fragile human psychology. But the worst part is, it isn't. It's honest and unapologetic and true, all of it, all of him. His benevolence as much as his brutality.

And sometimes Sam can't take it, the kindness. When Lucifer is everything he could ever want or need or dream of. Beauty and glory and love and every answer to every question. When he's goodness and salvation and the sun and the stars and the entire universe in all its brilliance and vastness and immeasurability. Because other times, he's the Devil. And it hurts like a motherfucker when he's the Devil.

They end up on the bed like they usually do. And Lucifer is kissing down his abdomen, slow and indulgent, and he's telling Sam how he chose him. How God's favorite son got to select his own true vessel out of thousands of generations in the same bloodline. How Dad was trying to make amends after Lilith; and Samael, and no angel or archangel before him or after him, got to see it all, flashes of an ever-changing future, to pick and choose the one, beyond time and genetics and the inevitability of divine plans. Before the fall, before Cain and Abel, before the forbidden fruit.

And Sam is hyperventilating again because, "Why me? Lucifer, why me?"

"You asked me that same question the first time. Remember?"

Sam never forgot, repeats the words like a mantra, "It always had to be me..."

"Always. You were not prophesied, Sammy; you were chosen. For all your vulnerabilities and your endurance. Your potential and your fortitude and your perseverance. Your curiosity and your hunger and your rebellion. And the light in your eyes, reflecting only my own."

Lucifer nuzzles against his thigh, and Sam is cold and disoriented and infatuated and horrified. He breathes in shallow interrupted gasps, like air is too much and everything is too much and if Lucifer was ever a trap, Sam was set up before the dawn of Man and none of this is fair or right or sensible and he never stood a fucking chance.

"No more going in the box. I get it, I get it, I get it."

Lucifer looks up at him, smiling. And for a brief second he looks so normal, so human, so hopeful. And Sam's heart flutters because he's going stark raving mad.

"You want me to choose myself. The self that chooses you; the self that you chose. Because humanity is self-destructive, a special breed of monster that feeds on itself. And it sickens you, and it breaks your heart, that I'd choose them, that I'd sacrifice myself for something so vile, so vulgar. Because they're ruining the planet and they're ruining each other and, for all that you are, your cruelty and your indifference, your violence, you'd have saved the world in your own way. Like I want to save the world, like I weed out the things that go bump in the night. And I understand, Lucifer, I understand. I'm the only family you ever chose. And together, we could have been magic. And you're... the absolute worst and the absolute best thing that ever happened to me."

And Sam blinks because he's tearing up again, because all he really wants right now is to go on that promised hike, explore the woods Lucifer made a couple of weeks ago, climb up the hill on the other side, and make love amidst the stars. And he wonders if the world will perish outside, in a hundred or a thousand or a million years from now, and they'll still be here. Just the two of them. Pressing on. Forever.

And the mattress is sinking slightly under Lucifer's weight as he moves up and straddles him. Can't take his eyes off of him. Fingers and nails to brush and touch and tickle and caress. All the might of archangel, employed at will, to hold and save and keep, relish and savor and please, everything that was once human and is made into something more. Teeth and tongue and cock, because the occasion calls for intimacy that invites celebration. And Sam is being kissed again, loved properly and for all the right reasons, and the chill that seeps into his bones, familiar and possessive and everlasting, settles there and stays. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The box is based off of The Brazen Bull (without the theatricality and with Hell-grade modifications), a torture and execution method that may and may not have been real. It absolutely terrifies me and it makes my skin crawl. I have no idea why I do this to myself and I'm sorry for EVERYTHING. 
> 
> Also, if I'm missing any warnings, please let me know! 
> 
> Feedback means the world to me and I'm always open for constructive criticism. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	10. Seven Sacraments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: unhealthy everything.

It's day sixty-three thousand in Hell. And Sam Winchester might be two centuries old, but he's so very young, still.

And when he's not wrestling with resentment, with pure lethal contempt for everything and everyone, those who never came to the rescue and those who did and failed, the fallen angel on his back and himself, most of all, rage a monstrous helpless thing that gnaws on his insides because it's trapped and furious and violent and it has nowhere else to go, he's trembling with love all consuming. With tenderness and forgiveness and world peace, a blanket pardon for every sinner and every sin. And an infatuation that wants, wants, wants, and can't get enough: greedy and yet selfless, something of joy and magic and irrationality, not a tinge of self-preservation.

When he's not utterly miserable, human and deprived and broken, sacrificed on the altar of a greater good once, for the Devil's divine retribution a million times since, made the embodiment of battles fought and won and lost and forgotten: the ghosts of shame and guilt and futility and forever haunting the corners of his everything, he's elated. He's living the fucking dream, he's the patron saint of overcoming and survival and endurance, he's capable and invincible and free.

And when he's not terrified out of his mind, scared senseless, overwhelmed with distress and biology and anxiety that serves no purpose and knows no mercy, panic swallowing him in like quicksand and gritted teeth and stuttered words and muffled screams falling on indifferent ears and wholly ignored, he's safe. He's basking in the certainty of immortality and the lifetime warranty that comes with it, against every and all instances of wear and tear. He's taken under literal and proverbial wings, allowed to heal and grow and transcend. And Lucifer feels like home and refuge and a final resting place. A benevolent god and a shoulder to cry on and a mentor, always here, always listening, always willing and able and generous.

It's almost always either or, never anything in between. Though sometimes, sometimes it's both and everything and Sam is choke-full of opposites that don't attract, tussling inside him for hold and purchase and grounds, bending him over and backwards and twisting him into uncomfortable positions, leaving him there, open and ready for the taking.

And Sam can't continue to exist as an aftermath of an already served noble cause. A ballad of heroism reduced into a flimsy conception of self, too burnt out and drained to sustain itself. And hope, the greatest joke of them all. No. Sam can't bear it, can't be it, can't pretend to give a fuck. Hatchet already buried, dues paid in full. He deserves to move on.

Love is moving on. Love is giving in and letting go. Love is submission and selfishness and a betrayal, and an effortless decision, all things considered, made in a moment of epiphany and faithlessness and defeat, tastes too much like a victory. An infection and a virus, allowed to take hold and spread and claim, splashing color and purpose and the illusion of choice on the inner walls of his marred chest. And Sam doesn't fight it because he doesn't want to. Because whatever logic or reason or vendetta that once fortified his heart and kept the invasion at bay, it's been dripping out of him for decades now, couldn't outlast an everlasting siege, couldn't chant the anthem of war and resistance ad infinitum, not when every fabric of his being wants to abandon post and hand over the keys.

If nothing else, Sam thinks he owes himself that much: to surrender and breathe, to allow himself the precious bits and pieces of rest and happiness and peace, to love the Devil when he just can't hate him anymore.

And Sam loves him. Loves him more than he deserves, loves him less than he deserves, loves him in all the ways love often is, messy and reckless, compulsive and uncalculated and suicidal.

Even when love doesn't make Lucifer particularly kinder, barely softens his edges or his words or his claws. Even when it means Sam has something to prove.

"So I love you."

Lucifer, ever the skeptic, ever the romantic, a lover and a fighter and a host of trust issues and too much history and pride and wounded ego and entitlement, doesn't bite.

To be fair, Sam may have abused the words, used them too liberally. Spoken them one time too many like a prayer and a plea and a bargaining chip, expecting something in return. A negotiation in a business deal, stripped of meaning and weight and value, dragged in the mud. Because for all his morality and the high horse he rides in on, Sam knew he is loved and wielded the knowledge like a weapon, even when it didn't work, even when it was manipulative and endearing and insulting and pathetic. Except this time, Lucifer wasn't hurting him, and Sam wasn't trying, and failing, to sweet talk himself out of anything. Lucifer had just said something funny, and Sam whispered it like he believed it. Because he did. He craved it, he was so sure, but what does he know about love, anyway?

"Oh you do? And you mean it? And If I rip your heart out and hold it to my lips, I'll see it, and I'll hear it, and I'll smell it and I'll taste it and I'll feel it?"

"Yes, Lucifer, yes."

And so Lucifer did just that. Licked the confession off of the bloody coiled thing and found it lacking: heart didn't beat fast enough, didn't suffer enough, didn't _want_ enough. And he tsked and sighed and fucked Sam rough and dry and brutal, left him hanging from the ceiling, barbed wire tight around his neck, choking to near death for days on end.

"Don't give me coping mechanisms, Sammy. Only the truth. Only honesty. Only when it's real."

Sam begged for forgiveness and tried again a month later.

And then the week after, and then the day after, and again, and again, and again. A couple of razorblades shoved down his throat when he didn't sound warm enough. Seven molars pulled out when he didn't kiss hard enough. Fingernails, all ten of them, off when he didn't touch soft enough.

Because, and Sam understands this too well and wishes he doesn't, Lucifer never demanded love of him; but if he was going to get it anyway, it needed to be good and proper and absolute and final and a tyranny and a consumption in its own right, something fit of the divinity Sam's claiming feelings for. Lucifer wouldn't validate anything less, wouldn't comprehend anything less, like his father before him, asking Abraham to sacrifice his own son to prove a fucking point. And Sam might have to offer himself up for slaughter a hundred times over for the simple words to even count.

In a way, this is also communication and experimentation and foreplay. And a gentle reminder of every time Sam said "no," when he should have screamed "yes." For every "never" that should have been an "always." Lucifer playing hard to get, guiding his hand, like a new lover would, to the special places that make him tick.

Sam doesn't question the process. Knows all will be well, because this, this will end well. He just needs to try harder, to sink further, to drown himself head to toe in the light and the cold and the warmth and the beautiful and the terrible and everything in between.

Until his chest is bursting with it, until it floods his bloodstream and flows out of him. Until he is spilling it in tears and caresses and long wistful gazes and incoherent desperate declarations yearning for release, tearing him open from the inside out, shrieking, itching to be yelled at the top of his lungs.

Until it is pure and perfect and flawless and true.

Until it's enough.

And Sam knows him, knows him so intimately it aches. Knows the gleam in his eyes when they flash red and eternal and breathtaking, with vigor and exhilaration, not wrath. Knows the tell-tale signs of affection that slip past the savagery and mend the damage as he inflicts it. Knows when Lucifer is mad with tenderness, when he's pleased and proud and satiated, when this is a holy crusade he can get behind, endorse and support and bless.

Sam wants him happy; because when he's happy, the grace that rustles against Sam's soul is nothing short of Heaven, and Sam can live vicariously through the synergy, and be happy too, even when everything hurts.

"Love you. All of me loves you. Everything in me loves you. Lucifer, everything everything everything. I swear on everything."

Lucifer blinds him on the spot, peels the skin off his feet, flies them both to the meadow downstairs. Because he wants lilies to commemorate the day.

And Sam's heart is thudding out of his chest because this is good news. This is beautiful news. Lucifer had designed the meadow all by himself, his very own Eden in a sense, and wouldn't pluck a single flower if it didn't serve a purpose, if he didn't have an occasion to celebrate. His affinity for plant lifeforms was always something to marvel on, how cautiously he'd brush his fingers against petals and anthers, as unreal as they may be, and how entranced he'd seem with the smallest little details. How often he'd ramble about Dad's most captivating creation of all, and the utter disdain at humanity's disrespect, their desecration of something so immaculate, so durable and so impeccable.

_Because Flora is the Earth's untainted grace, Sam, its essence and fuel and life force._

Sometimes Sam wonders if, in some sort of alternate reality, Lucifer would have been a man with a garden and a green thumb, his backyard clothed in daisies and daffodils and sunflowers, jasmine and lilac and tulips and a dozen different trees. He'd grow his own food and he'd have his own ecosystem and he'd watch the world outside crumble and burn because it never mattered and he never cared.

And so Sam wanders in the open field he can't see, and he treads slow and careful, not to step on anything he shouldn't, because the soles of his feet are already destroyed and Lucifer would be oh so fucking mad. He sniffs for a whiff of direction, and it's a lot of trial and error and frustration, crawling between clouds of scents and softness and thorns, to catch the right feel, the right shape, the right fragrance. And then it's two hours later and Sam can barely stand and he's clutching on a bouquet of what hopefully is an assortment of the correct genus of flowers and he's exhausted. And it'll break his heart, and probably his nose, and probably both hands, but more so his heart, if he disappoints after all.

Lucifer snaps his fingers one, two, three times. And Sam follows the sound like a siren call.

"Lucifer?"

"Yes, baby. Here."

He stumbles closer, one, two, three steps. Until the aura of cold and power and pure fucking primordial energy is sharp and raw against his skin. And Sam wants to collapse and kneel and bare his throat and offer _everything_ , but not, not just yet.

He hands his gift over, for assessment and a verdict, because first things first.

"Lilies?"

"Not all of them. But, gorgeous."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I know you expect color coordination at least, but I... I don't think I know what that means and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry."

When Lucifer takes away sight, and he does, occasionally, the very concept of vision and every memory associated with it are purged out of him too. And Sam's recollections, the old and the new, are sounds and scents and feelings; can't recall ever "seeing" anything in his life. And the sudden loss is always so unsettling, and Sam has no cultivated skills or experience to compensate for any of it. It's vulnerable and terrifying and it impairs his everything. It's meant to impair his everything. Because love is blind too and, sometimes, everything is a metaphor.

Lucifer draws him in gently. And Sam is pushing through the initial flinch that erupts with every touch lately, seizing terror that subsides into gratefulness when the contact comes with good intentions. But Lucifer is all kindness, and he's cradling his neck and kissing the tip of his nose, and he is crooning.

"Shush, Sammy. You did your best. Do I ever ask for more than your best?"

"No, no, you don't."

"You have no idea how you look like, Sam. Caked in blood and splinters and pollen and need. So open for me, beautiful. I'm so proud of you."

Sam deflects as he always does when showered in praise and flattery he doesn't think he truly deserves. But he's smiling, and he's leaning in out of instinct and he sounds so fucking warm, "I have no idea how _anything_ looks like, Lucifer. Don't rub it in."

And then Lucifer is chuckling, a lighthearted fond thing that makes every nerve-ending tingle. He cuts it short to whisper, chewing on the words like he's savoring them, "I love you too. And I believe you."

"Fuck, I'm gonna cry."

"Then cry. Because I'm going to give you everything you deserve, Sammy. I'm going to spoil the hell out of you. I'll show you such wonderful things. Ask me for anything and you'll have it."

And Sam might be full-on sobbing but he's also drunk on ecstacy, intoxicated with glee. Like this isn't Hell and this isn't sad and the love that was just accepted and approved isn't a boulder he's bound and destined to keep rolling up a hill for the rest of eternity and beyond. Like he didn't just sign himself over to the Devil.

Perhaps though it's all in the past: who Lucifer is and who Sam Winchester is and the how and the why and the _why-the-fuck_ are beside the point. Perhaps it's a new beginning and it's a new era and it's a brave new world and everything is good and pleasant and peachy and it isn't like there is anyone else here to judge or blame or point fingers or state the obvious. And if there is the slimmest of chances that this could work, that this could last and persist and endure, against the nothing roaring outside, and the fire roaring within, and Michael and God and sanity and history and ethos and reason, and how Lucifer's love is possession and annihilation and a dark twisted thing that habitually deconstructs and reconstructs and bores so, so, easily, Sam would take it. And Sam knows exactly what to ask for.

"Want. To. See you."

He says it in Enochian. Because then it's "see" or "perceive" or "bear witness," all three sharing the same nomenclature, and Sam knows he may not even need his eyes for this one. And harsh primeval sounds roll off his tongue so smoothly, so softly, deliver the message just right.

Lucifer plays though, in English, because he likes to play, "You want vision?"

"No, no. I want to truly see you. No masks, no veils, no vessels, all of you. Blind me again after. Blind me again forever. Let me see you first. Please."

"You pray so pretty. Give me more."

And Lucifer's grace is humming against his ears, all glory, all approval, and Sam needs to ground himself for a minute there before he loses himself in the melody. Because now there are hands on him, and wings around him, and the energy is flirtatious, mischievous, teasing. And Sam can hear the smile, the affection, the triumph, the eventual "yes," and he can barely breathe through the waves of clean unadulterated euphoria.

Not that eloquence is expected or that a hint of it can be mustered: Sam is exactly how and where he should be, desperate and unintelligible and aching. And he's a symphony of love and longing and adulation and _need to see you please please please._

And then Lucifer is shutting him up with a kiss, tongue and teeth, biting and devastating, stealing air and laying claim, and he's hissing between parted trembling lips, "This what you really want, Sam?"

Sam knows he's on the edge of a cliff, hanging by a thread, and that there isn't any part of him that wouldn't take that leap of faith. Another swan dive, like the one before; except this time, there's no apocalypse to stop, no world to save, no self to sacrifice. And, come hell or high water, Sam is doing this one for himself.

"Yes."

"Every molecule that makes you will unravel for me, when I unravel for you. Still yes, Sam?"

Sam knows this is final, this is inevitable. Knows the glue that keeps him together will melt and dissolve and evaporate the second Lucifer unleashes his light. Knows he's going to crumble and disintegrate and go down in flames. Knows he'll be rearranged and remade and reborn into something new and old and timeless and more. And he can't wait. He can't fucking wait.

"Yes."

"I'll be inside you, and you will be inside me, and the lines will blur and I won't draw them back. Still yes, Sam?"

Sam knows it's a merger of sorts, synethises, coalescence, fusion. Knows it's nothing like sharing a body or a room or a headspace with the Devil. Knows Lucifer is inviting him in, letting him in, burying him in. Knows the lilies from before were as much a declaration of love as they are a eulogy for the version of him that will be no longer. And Sam is enamored and terrified and anxious and charmed and this is their happily ever after; he's plunging in head-first.

"Yes."

"You won't unsee me. You won't forget me. You won't survive me. Still yes, Sam?"

Sam knows he won't, anyway. Knows Lucifer isn't particularly after his informed consent; he just likes the sound of his yes, likes the irony of his yes, likes the requital of his yes.

"Yes"

"Heaven and Hell and everything of Father, the holy and the cursed and my name, I'll burn it all into your soul. I'll imprint on you. Forever and always, till true death do us part. Still yes, Sammy?"

And true death might as well be a mythical concept, and the world outside might as well be a bedtime story, and God might as well be Lucifer's fever dream. And nothing and no one and no time an no place has ever existed but the two of them right here. And if there was a before, if there will ever be an after, Sam won't entertain the thought. Now is pretty fucking enough.

"Yes."

"Then, yes. Anything for you, baby."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter isn't the usual length because the events there were supposed to merely be alluded to in the finale. And then I ended up writing them and now it's its own chapter. Also, writing this was difficult and I'm too sad for Sam and I'm generally hoping it's not as depressing as it is in my head. 
> 
> Anyway, criticism and feedback are always welcome and they mean the world to me.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	11. A Thousand Suns Burn Just for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! I'm a hopeless case and I keep planning chapters that end up a lot longer than I expected, so I end up splitting them and you end up with an extra chapter. If this is super frustrating, I'm sorry. I get carried away and I notice 3K words in that I'm not even close to done. I really wanted to post this week, so yeah, this happened again. Next chapter will be the final final, though. Promise. Cross my heart.
> 
> Hope this is ultimately worth your while anyway!
> 
> Also, title of this chapter is a line from Rammstein's Spring.

It's day sixty-six thousand fifteen, day two hundred thousand, day zero, day one million... Time isn't linear, or measurable, or relevant, or real. Sam Winchester doesn't care.

Sam is tiptoeing on the edge of physics, arms stretched out, shoulders straight, lips wet and warm and pursed with song. He lets himself wobble left and right, rocks back on his heels, toys with balance and gravity and adjusts both to his liking. He hums an ancient tune with the choir of Heaven in his chest, can't quite recall the verses, but the chorus is an ode of praise to Being, catchy enough to stick. He stops at the corner of the universe where he had once built a small town on a mountaintop, some millennia ago, or yesterday, all the same. His architectural magnum opus, still standing. 

He remembers kissing Lucifer in the alley behind the post office, hands wandering like an overexcited teenager, legs apart like an eager whore, heart a love-stricken thrumming thing that demanded feeding. And the crucifixion that followed and lasted, until he was skin and bones and broken sobs, sins confessed and made manifest and forgiven, somewhere in the outskirts of town where the Sun shone bright and a game of hide and go seek didn't particularly win him any favors. Violent as their delights may have been, they didn't miss a spot. Marked every street, every hideout, every vacant building, with blood and cum and conversation. 

Sam would miss it if it hadn't happened and is happening and will yet to happen. The entanglement of a thousand lives crammed in the same moment and experienced individually and simultaneously and in a row. Time breathes him in and the past is nostalgic and the future is an already fulfilled promise. It's always now and he's always moving on. 

He grasps the extended horizon and gives it a twirl and it's an autopsy room. The woman, the first experiment crowned with success, is still on the table, naked and open and dead. Sam is proud of this one, even as he grieves her: built up perfectly to sustain life. He didn't miss a vein, didn't miss a cell, recreated biology from scratch and from memory and watched it do its thing and do it well. It's the only model he didn't want to kill.

_"If you create an entity with no cognitive functions, no complex thoughts or self-awareness, only the physical capacity to feel, to hurt, is it not real, Sam? Is it not alive?"_

Soulless and mindless as she may have been, she still had nerve endings and pain receptors and, oh, the vocal cords on her. She screamed nonstop during vivisection, eyes wide and wild as if there was consciousness there to understand suffering, but none of the words to express it. And that dissection, that dissection was not entirely post mortem. Sam can still hear him in the background, the trace of phantom tongue still cold and sharp against his neck. Words slick like honey, poisonous. 

_"So while we cannot create soul, pretty sure we can create this. See, Sam, consciousness, at a very basic level, is an electric circle. Connect the wires and, bang, you've got light. And pain is, well, an alarm system, mechanics. Doesn't require comprehension to be felt. A straightforward cause-and-effect automation that I, and eventually you, can program on the fly."_

Sam remembers wondering if Lucifer had purposefully switched to English because Enochian would fail his analogies so miserably. That the spontaneity of it warmed his heart. That he clung to the emotion and tuned out the noises.

_"Say I plant a hundred million neurons there, a hundred million here, a simple network to communicate the message. Give it a throat as generous as yours, throw in a positive chemical response to crying the fuck out. Hurt it like this..."_

And for the sake of demonstration, Sam would be writhing on the floor at this point, shrieking and bawling and huffing incoherent variations of please no more. 

_"...and it'll scream for me just as eagerly."_

Once again, the ancient worn-out parts of Sam that still attach their identity to a vague notion of the outside offer the absolution of "none of this is real." Except this is an empty statement that nullifies itself. And Sam can't remember what is it that constructs "real," or if there was ever a clear-cut distinction between true and false. He is not sure if this is evasion or conviction or apathy, to think of the woman and those who preceded her, and those who followed and he didn't mourn, exclusively as very interactive anatomy lessons. Because if they're not, then Sam has birthed some form of primitive awareness into Hell, to exist briefly as a guinea pig, and then perish in slow agony at his hands.

But cold-blooded murder or not, and the morally questionable absence of guilt aside, if he can touch it, if he can wrap his fingers around the solid mass of it, if Lucifer made it, if he made it, if it has impact or velocity or an equal and opposite reaction, if it stares him in the eyes while it dies, how is it not real?

And if it's not real, then is he?

Because, for the life of him, he can't recall a version of being that didn't quake and crack and fracture at the mere question. And certainty is an elusive fluid thing that slips through his fingers the second doubt creeps in. And if the basic frame of reference is cogito, ergo sum, then what if his thoughts, much as his human experiments' pain, are artificial too? What if he's just a projection of an archangel's fantasy, an idea, a dream, a flashback. Or a simulation of a self that thinks it thinks. 

Sam gazes down at himself, sees the faded outline of his body with a bird's eye-view. Threads of light that whirl and knot inside him, in and out of him, round and round they go. And the ones that escape the loop, and travel afar like crepuscular rays, seeking their source and origin, their fatherland. Everything else is a deep ocean of black, dead stars tumbling down, and the abyss is calling his name. 

He sinks to his knees and he prays his heart out. 

And then they are in the meadow again. Just like the first time. Because it's always the first time. No matter how often or how regularly he gets to _see_ him now, there's always this alien novelty, this climacteric point of inflection, a moment of ultimate truth. As if the visual input in and of itself is volumes beyond his memory centers' storage limit, frying his circuits as it breaches him, overwhelming his system as it storms in, filling him up and claiming his everything. And though the aftermath is a brand and a contract, permanent and irreversible and binding, only the half-burnt tatters of those records survive the invasion. Sam never stops aching for it. 

For the utter destruction of it. For the beauty that sears itself behind half-lidded eyes until they burst with tears and blood and _awe._ For the precise second when the dam breaks, and Sam is spreading himself open to welcome the flood. For the monster, the angel, that forged himself into a cage and a home and an ideology, preaching freedom and bestowing tyranny, to a congregation of one, already converted.

Lucifer, all true form and blinding unbridled light, corrupted and terrifying and brilliant. God's artistry and handprints and remnants of something dark and primeval and malignant, the essence of Heaven and the scars of Hell. 

And Sam is floating off his feet because every fabric of his soul is twisting and straining to reach its kin, to be sucked in and absorbed and obliterated into the genesis of it all, the whole and the core and the sum of all their parts. A stray comet, sick with longing, trapped in the orbit of the Morningstar, never close enough. And Sam had begged for close enough, for absolute and total annihilation if it will take him. But Lucifer can't have his cake and eat it too. 

"Easy. Sam, Sam, Sam."

Sam has to blink a hundred times in rapid frantic succession because he can now see in 360 degrees and what vision reveals to him: the macrocosm and the microcosm, the microscopic and the macroscopic, the ultraviolet and the infrared and a spectrum of nameless and inconceivable colors, is more than he can handle all at once. And he's squinting and trembling because it's the only way he can glance at Lucifer and coax his overstimulated brain into reconstructing the swirling morphing patterns of light and grace and liquid matter into something recognizable, comprehensible, something he can stare at and not, hopefully not, lose himself into its abstraction, its sublimity. 

Pareidolia, Sam knows. His human perspective zooming in and locking onto shapes and forms in the clouds, translating them into an image that he can't unsee, that isn't really there. And if he focuses, if he believes, he can see the outline of a genderless humanoid figure, towering over him. Face mutating as it emotes, settling on a soft motion picture, gentle and mesmerizing and _beautiful_ , features sharp and defined and uncanny in all the ways they're familiar as much they are otherworldly. He's in a good mood, Sam can barely think. Because the hue of glowing azure that fixates on him is unreservedly kind, and the icy fire is calm, and the typhoon of star dust and static electricity, right where his heart should be, is playful and indulging, patient fondness and murmurs of reassurance. 

_It's different when he's angry. It's different when he wants you scared. When crimson red suffuses all his textures and he's a force of nature and a weapon of mass destruction. When the contours of his face shift and warp into a sea tornado and a black hole and his voice is a thunderstorm and he's all eyes and Hellfire and savage, indisputable, supremacy, raw unmitigated power, malicious and willing and able, radiating off of his every edge, delivering damage so meticulous, so reckless, so perfect. When Sam's eardrums burst and he's foaming at the mouth and his soul is a shrunken frozen thing and the terror, the terror, the terror..._

Sam had an important question to ask, but he can't, can't formulate a thought.

"You're not doing very well on your own, Sammy."

But there's a hint of a smile there, and Lucifer is chiding softly, sympathetically, as if addressing a child whose failures and honest-to-god efforts are adorable and appreciated in their own rights. 

And Sam is still transfixed with the labyrinth of Vantablack and gold on massive, glorious, wings. Unfurled just for him, a panorama of splendor and meteor showers. And the small, scattered tears in the fabric of outer space, courtesy of the fall, unwritten history documented in flesh. Sam wants to fit himself in the gaps and mend it whole again. He inches closer to touch.

"Don't wanna be alone. I'm sorry."

Sam knows his solo ventures into their shared headspace, into the uncharted territories beyond the door of his room, almost never locked now, are necessary. That he has a lot to learn, a lot to make peace with, even more to get acclimated to. That the trip down memory lane, vision through an archangel's eyes, a boundless limitless world at his feet, are supposed to expand his vantage point, to teach him _something_. He doesn't exactly know what, and it's not like Lucifer would ever spoil the end-goal of his lessons. And yet, Sam can't seem to stand the separation, to endure the sheer volume of too vivid, too surreal, too ephemeral, too bright, too dark, too much. Not without an anchor, not without cold fingers wrapped around his own, taking the lead, showing the way. And so every time, every single time, he ends up spiraling into...

"Lucifer, am I real? Do I exist?"

He curls himself against a stream of easy, pleasant serenity, human-shaped almost, but not really, divine and unfathomable still, knows that's where all the answers are, feels the brush of phoenix wings as they fold around him and pull him close, knows that a little tighter would crush all his bones, but it's soft and cozy and there's no room for worry. Lucifer is always solid and tangible and not terribly cold when the demand for physical intimacy proclaims itself and he's in an affectionate enough spirit to provide. And Sam is so grateful, so in love he can't fucking bear it. 

"What was it this time, baby?"

Sam chews on the shame and spits it out like a bad apology, "The autopsy room. The woman I-- and what you-- what you said."

"Finish your sentences."

"The woman I created and sliced into and killed."

"Ahh, of course. You never forget your first, hm? Think you could have taught her the Alphabet if we kept her? The periodic table? How to gag on your cock?"

Sam buries his face in feathers and light and screws his eyes shut, "I'm sorry. I don't know."

"Do better than this, Sam. You know I expect better than this."

When Lucifer is disappointed, it's sensory deprivation, it's claustrophobia, it's the umbilical cord cut prematurely and Sam is starving and withering and dying. And he can feel it rising at the back of his throat, the acid, distress and anxiety and the hysterical urge to please. 

"I don't know what I made and I don't know what I am. I know you're real. I know you're the only reality that matters. I don't know how to exist outside you. I don't know if I exist outside you. It's not guilt. I swear, I swear, it's-"

Lucifer clicks his tongue.

"What it is is pathetic. You'd rather question your very existence than let yourself be something bigger, something powerful and superior and beautiful. You'd rather disguise your guilt, your trivial moral dilemmas, as panic attacks and existential crises. I will not enable your willful ignorance, Sam. Go back to your room."

And Sam is clutching on him as he withdraws his wings, as he withdraws his affection, and he's convulsing with self-loathing and disgust and the gaping ugly emptiness where Lucifer's approval should be. It burns his guts and crushes him, it punctures his lungs and drowns him. 

"No, Lucifer! No, no, no-- hurt me, punish me, forgive me, please, no, please..."

"Go back to your room, Sam."

"Lucifer, no, no. I will make a hundred others. I'll torture them to death. I'll do anything."

Lucifer tilts his head, chuckles mirthlessly, "And then you'll pretend it's make-believe. That I made you do it. Who are you fooling, Sam?"

"Myself. I'm fooling myself. I'm sorry, sorry please, I'm sorry."

And Sam is wailing like the world just shattered because the world just did. Because when Lucifer sends him back to his room, he locks the door, locks both doors, and Sam is cut off from everything he knows, everything he loves, everything he's capable of; and it's fucking broiling, it's so fucking dry, it's the Sahara in August without his grace. And for a small eternity there, Sam chokes on hot sand and loss, on his broken heart and his worthless prayers, and he can't can't cant, he just can't. 

Sometimes, Lucifer takes pity. Because he knows Sam is trying. He knows Sam can't help his humanity so much as Lucifer can't help resenting the occasional display of the worst of it. 

Somewhere, in all his dimensions, there's rigidity that softens. Not always, not often, and only in increments.

Lucifer grabs him by the jaw, presses his thumb against lower lip, "Breathe. Slower."

Sam tries, but he's distraught beyond belief and he can barely stutter, "I'm so-- I'm so sorry."

"I know. You're lucky I love you."

"Don't give up on me. Don't leave me. Won't bear it, please."

The desperation is so poignant Lucifer can taste it. He digs a fingernail in the shredded skin of Sam's lips, always bitten and open and a darker shade of pink when he's trembling. And the moment lingers, the boy simmers. And then Lucifer soothes.

"I won't, Sammy. I know you need time. I know we'll get there."

And Sam nods frantically and he dives in. Choke-full of devotion he can't put into words but needs, how he needs, to prove. He kisses and bites and worships. He sucks on every digit and licks on every corner. It's too physical, too messy, shouldn't possibly count. But Lucifer is smiling, and he pays him back in kind. He penetrates his every pore, infiltrates the very air he's breathing, flows in and out of him and tugs on every nerve. He sinks a hand in his chest, wraps fingers around his soul and he squeezes. Tight and sudden and brutal. And Sam screams, a terrible piercing thing, almost inhuman, his limbs jerking forward and his eyes rolling back. And then he moans.

"Haa-- yes, yes."

"Baby?"

"Yours."

"You wanna see it?"

"Please."

Lucifer twists and yanks, and Sam is in _agony,_ quivering and shaking and losing his fucking mind, and it's good, it's so good, it's so grounding. It's love and reassurance and certainty and he's radiant, flushed with suffering, glowing with it. And he's staring down and he can see it. 

_An orb of light tarnished with darkness, scarred and charred and still ever so bright, coiled and palpitating, flickering, in Lucifer's palm. Mangled, like Michael once said. Perfect, like Lucifer says every day._ _And the delicate webs of silk and energy, intertwined with angel grace, intricate and fluent and their lights barely distinguishable, spinning in tandem and forever, and Sam can't tell which is whose. It's ever-present. It's self-evident. It's real._

Sam's eyes dart up and fixate, red-rimmed and wet and glimmering. And between the screeching, he's laughing, he's panting, he's manic. His voice a breathless whisper, an obscene groan, a hymn.

"Lucifer, we're glorious. You're beautiful. I love you. I fucking love you."

And Lucifer looks charmed, looks sated, shines oh so bright. And this may have been a reassurance that went both way.

"And I trust you, Sammy. I believe in you. You wouldn't fathom what that means if you tried."

Sam thinks he understands. Because archangel or not, the Devil or not, Lucifer wants something to believe in. An idol, even if he'll have to mold it in his own image, even if he'll have to build it block by block. As long as it stays. As long as it doesn't fail him. Not again. Those ancient scars haven't yet healed.

This kind of love is a full consumption or it's nothing at all. An eternity of it. Until it's an eternity no more. 

As things go, there's a particular point in the endless stream of now that enforces chronological order. That situates itself so decidedly as "after," where every other moment is "before." It doesn't exist suspended in an ambiguous timeline. And it's defined by itself because itself is definition enough. Lucifer senses it as it approaches, recognizes it for what it is, and it's not like he didn't see it coming. But too soon, too soon. 

And Sam may have felt the drastic shift in the air, the disturbance in their energy, how the atmosphere dimmed and darkened and several of his small architecture projects were drowned in tsunamis. How the fallen angel in his bed, in his head, in his heart and soul and blood, had painted every wall red and didn't seem to revel in it. Sam may have seen the omens, the signs of the end of days, the fury that shattered the earth beneath his feet and punished him for it because it loved him too fucking much and it was _so fucking scared_. But Sam didn't know, not an inkling, not for a second, that it was finally Death at the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been agonizing over Lucifer's true form since chapter one. We have Rowena's trauma after she saw his true face and then, somehow, in season 14 we get Lucifer in the empty as a normal human skeleton? With wings? So, I don't know, I tried. 
> 
> Also, the consciousness vs. soul debate? If that interests you at all, let me know. I love this shit! 
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me in the comments because I can't stick to a chapter count. Concrit is welcome too! 
> 
> Each and every form of feedback is awesome and very appreciated. Your support means A LOT. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	12. When the Man Comes Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Emotional abuse, and a lot of angst.
> 
> Title is Johnny Cash's The Man Comes Around.

It's the very last day in Hell. And Sam Winchester doesn't know it yet.

Despite the fundamental need to ground himself in whatever version of reality he's given, Sam still daydreams. Still crafts visions of a bright future he can hold onto and longingly look forward to, something to work for and move towards. And it's been the same fantasy lately. Started as a far-fetched scenario, a sequence of what-ifs centralized around one prospect, soaked in wish-fulfillment and viewed through rose-colored glasses. Sam develops it slowly, adds details and dialogue and background noises. Sometimes, it's an alternate universe in his head.

It goes like this: Lucifer and Michael will be quarrelling like they occasionally do. Crossing swords and waging wars, tearing into each other because violence is the only form of communication they can afford each other. It will be a zero-sum game as it always is, a therapeutic bonding activity at this point. Neither of them can win; neither of them cares to try. Victory isn't the end-goal here, and no fatal blows are ever struck. And then one day, Michael will stop. Because he can finally see, he can finally understand. He'll stop and he'll apologize, beg Lucifer's forgiveness for every ounce of betrayal, for every nanosecond of abandonment, for the banishment and the scars and the isolation. And Michael will be so fucking remorseful Lucifer will believe it, will accept it, will take it to heart. And they'll embrace.

They'll hug and cry and stand united and let bygones. They'll start over and Lucifer will be happy. Lucifer will be at peace, will get the acknowledgment he's owed, the love he deserves and even Sam can't compensate for. It will heal him.

And then Michael will wake Adam up, will ease him back into being again. And Sam will be the best big brother in their little universe. He'll show Adam how to build a solar system, how to build a movie theatre, how to build human DNA. He'll tell him about Dean, about monsters, about Dad, about Lucifer. He'll tell him about survival, about love, and how it's the only light at the end of the tunnel.

In the fantasy, they will be content, all four of them. They'll exchange forgiveness like gifts, kill the resentment festering under each other's beds. And Sam will be redeemed, and Lucifer will never leave him alone again, will only hurt him because he does get bored sometimes, but never vengefully, never out of bitterness, never out of disappointment.

Sam thinks it's bound to happen because eternity is long enough for anything to happen. And if not today, then tomorrow, or a millennium from tomorrow. Michael will come around, and Lucifer will get his justice, his closure, and all will be good and right with the world.

But most definitely not today. Today, the sky is raging with Lucifer's rage.

Sam knows there's a time and a place for terror and that the time is now, the place is right here. He carries on anyway. Arms to shield his head, nothing to guard his heart. They walk. And Lucifer destroys.

Every river in their path is boiling. Every construction, burning. Every field in the horizon, turned upside down, made a wasteland and a sea of decay. Sam watches the towers crumble and the birds die. The heavens splitting open and raining acid. The very air a nuclear holocaust that ravages nature and brutalizes it. And as the earth howls songs of demise and the stars explode like fireworks, not a single flower is spared. Every memory, desecrated. The Sun flickers and shrinks away.

Sam marches through the ruins like a ghost, like a prophecy, like a messenger of annihilation. He mourns them all. He cries. He doesn't protest.

But most importantly, he doesn't ask why.

As much as it aches, it shouldn't matter, not really. He'll build again when Lucifer is calmer. He'll build better. If nothing here is worth saving, then that must be his doing, his fault and his penance. In all fairness, most of his early designs were flawed at best. Maybe he deserves this. Maybe he deserves to watch it all burn.

And there's a moment somewhere in the midst of the apocalypse where Lucifer pauses and stills, and his eyes dart up to Venus. He stares blankly for a minute, and then he huffs a resigned chuckle. He flicks a finger and a mountain disintegrates. And as the earth quakes beneath his half-damaged feet, Sam's heart flutters.

Love, hallowed be its name, tugs at tender strings of soul and overwhelms him.

Sam kisses on shoulder blades where wings should be and breathes his words as if they'll never suffice, "I don't deserve your kindness. Thank you."

And Lucifer stiffens, furrows his brows, rigid expression gradually unfolding into another chuckle as he shifts to flash it. This time all teeth, all sharp edges, almost too loud, "Kindness? Ah, would you listen to that? Man, I must have fucked you up real good."

"What?"

"Funny part is, I didn't even try that hard, didn't play nice, didn't exactly hold back. And look at you. I could do _anything_ to you, and you'll still grovel and kiss my feet and thank me for the privilege."

Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

"Do you even remember who you are, Sam? Do you remember who I am? Oh, oh, and your little landscapes, your little projects, all the souvenirs you'll leave me... You really tried, huh? You really believed. That any of this counts, that it's fucking good enough, that we're not swimming in nothing playing pretend."

And Sam is stumbling back and he's shaking his head, and a wave of nausea washes over him, sudden and intense and freezing. His skin is freezing. And his chest is hot. It's so fucking hot behind his eyes. And his voice is a small pitiful thing that breaks the second it escapes him.

"I don't-- I don't understand. What are you saying? Why are you doing this?"

Lucifer's face contorts into something turbulent, something between a laugh and a scoff and a groan, something cruel and bitter and lashing out.

"Why am I doing this? WHY DID YOU DO THIS?"

And the air whirls, it scorches, it strikes; it slams Sam thirty feet away, drops him on his back. And Lucifer is stalking towards him with purpose, with vengeance, eyes bloody red and blazing, old and tired and scorned, terrifying. And there's an emotion there that Sam can't begin to translate, that seeps into every atom that surrounds them, that tears the very structure of their reality, that eclipses the Sun.

Sam scrambles on hands and knees and pulls himself up, every motion haste and hysterical and driven by rising clueless panic. Arms held out protectively in front of him, signaling a silent plea before the words spill out of him, "I'm sorry, I don't know-- Lucifer, I don't know what I did, I don't know!"

"No, of course you don't. It's all in the past, hm? I should really get over it."

He stops, close enough to touch. And he crosses his arms and his expression settles, a semblance of a cold distant sneer that doesn't sit quite right. Like this is dull and repetitive and he's seen it a million times before. Like Sam shouldn't be so predictable, shouldn't be trembling and wheezing and clawing at his thighs again so he wouldn't run.

"Would you say I broke you though, Sam? Because you made it so fucking easy. Bet your brother would have lasted a century longer."

But Sam doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know how to decipher it. Doesn't know if it's entrapment or indignation or something entirely other. Because Lucifer would never go there. Lucifer would never poke there. And something is so fundamentally _wrong_ Sam's heart is sinking, and he's still shaking his head like a madman and he's whimpering frantically because everything hurts and the very question stings, "Please, please, what did I do? Why? Why?"

"That's not an answer."

"No you said... No you said you won't--"

"I said I won't break you? Buddy I broke you a hundred thousand times. And then I built you up just a little bit, only to break you again. Come on, Sam."

And Sam turns away from him and he paces back and forth before him, like a headless chicken, like there's nowhere to go and he'd never go far enough, like he needs to stay right here and he needs to bolt and he needs to breathe and he needs something to grab on and cling to because he's drowning.

"Eyes on me now."

He obeys anyway. Fingers curled in his own hair and eyes wide and wet and so utterly bewildered, "Lucifer, please..."

"That's a good boy. So good for me, so polite. I genuinely wonder: when you do get out of here, what will you tell them when they ask? Hmm? Will you tell them that you begged for my company, begged for my grace, begged for my cock, begged for my love?"

Sam clasps both hands together above his head, digs nails in skin until it breaks, "We're never... never getting out. There's no out. You said--"

"Indulge me."

"I don't know. I can't think. Why are you doing this? There's no out. There's no out. Stop, stop, stop. Please stop."

And then Lucifer is scrunching his face with exaggerated disappointment, mock-shock, a hint of warning, and he asks slowly, enunciates every syllable, lets it drag and linger, "I'm sorry, did you say 'stop'? Do we say 'stop,' Sam? Do we say 'stop' to me?"

Sam does burst in tears just then, "No, no, yes. I'm sorry-- didn't mean it, swear, am sorry."

"Tsk. That's not how we pray either."

Without a speck of hesitation, Sam drops to his knees and prostrates himself and he prays like he has self-abasement down to a fine art.

For all the ways Lucifer took his pride and wiped the floor with it, Sam fully embraced this one. As far as indignities go, praying was humbling, but there was no shame to it, nothing degrading and nothing demeaning. Sam prayed every day: when he wanted something and when he didn't; when Lucifer was there, and when he wasn't. It was a line of communication and a love letter. It was intimate and appropriate and it felt good and right and cathartic. And there was always a level of reciprocity to the ritual. Because Lucifer knew how to worship him right back, how to attend to his every need, how to reward his submission, his adulation, his reverence, how to make temples out of their affection and call it beautiful.

Until today. Today it's just a crude display of dominance and Lucifer wants it to bite. And for the life of him, and try as he might, Sam can't read between the lines, can't comprehend why.

White-knuckled fists and quivering shoulders, Sam sobs his anguish into the ground, "Forgive me. Lucifer, forgive me. Let me atone. It hurts. My heart burns, please."

"Does it? Show me."

And Sam pulls up to sit half back on his heels and he sniffles and looks left and right in reeling fretful desperation, "Need uh-- need a blade..."

"Do you, really? Use a rock. Use your nails."

Not that self-mutilation is particularly pleasant, but Sam is almost grateful. Because this will hurt; this will hurt so much he won't have the mental capacity to think or feel anything other than the pain. Plain physical pain, incomplex and fathomable, typical and familiar and won't tear the foundation of everything he believes in anymore. Because Sam can't bear to think, to reflect on the centuries past, to analyze the words and the questions and what they spell out. And it's not even the abstract idea of an outside that shouldn't exist for him, or the thought of people he can barely remember and might need to answer to. It's that Lucifer was never this emotionally cruel. Never played this game, never inflicted this sort of soul-crushing world-shattering damage, never sown seeds of doubt so wholly devastating.

But he is, he is now. And he's twisting everything constant and reliable and sacred, his promises and his reassurances and all he is, all the Devil and the angel is, all he ever felt or said or did, into a charade and a lie and a joke. And there's no enduring this because Sam would rather the box a hundred times over than to live through a loss of this magnitude, or believe he was being played _again._

And so he reaches for the sharpest shard in the debris that surrounds him and he sticks it right in the chest. And he starts ripping. He starts screaming.

And Lucifer is watching blankly, his demeanor so impassive it's almost implausible. And Sam wants, aches, to see anything there: for his suffering to have meaning, to invoke something, even if it's amusement, even if it's curiosity, even if it's pure sadistic pleasure, gratification, pity, an ego-trip; anything but nothing. Because if it doesn't, then what's the point? What's the point of existing? What's the point of anything at all?

Distraught beyond reason as he is, there's a certain finesse to how Sam does it. For all the times he's been opened up and sliced into, Sam knows his insides like the back of his hand, navigates through them on autopilot. Knows exactly where to cut to not hit bone, the two ribs to crack to make room for entry, how to tread carefully around the lungs. He's still as slow and clinical as Lucifer would be when he's not doing it for the mess of it. And the worst part is the yanking, severing the arteries and the veins and the flesh that sticks and clings; Sam does it with savage abandon, like a self-inflicted punishment he can't justify but must have earned.

And then he's drenched in sweat and blood and he's shivering head to toe and he's collapsing forward like a deflated blow-up doll. And he's clenching cold fingers around the organ that should sustain him, that he shouldn't possibly be alive without but most certainly is regardless, and he holds it up like an offering.

Lucifer takes it unceremoniously, moves it to and fro left and right hands, too stiff and distracted for the display to suggest playfulness. And Sam could swear there's a shadow of something wistful there, something soft and restless. It doesn't last.

"Back to my question, then. What will you tell them when they ask?"

And Sam looks exhausted, dumbfounded and trapped and blindsided, wrestling with terror and confusion to articulate thoughts he can barely form. He rubs fingerpads against puffy eye sockets, stains his face bloody, and he rasps out.

"That you love me and I love you and we have nothing but each other? That-that we don't deserve the cage; no one deserves the cage. That we do what we can to survive. That I know you, Lucifer... I know you and I love you and I don't buy your contempt, I don't buy your hostility. You just want to hurt me. I don't know why you'd hurt me like this. I don't."

He scrambles forward to touch, to hold and soothe and ink a hundred promises of unwavering loyalty on cold impenetrable skin, a hundred vows of _forever_ and _eternity_ and _till true death does us part_.

And the Devil scoffs. Because this, this is hilarious.

"You're so sure, aren't you? So passionate, so committed. Just as sure as you were throwing us here. Just as sure as you were killing Lilith. Why are you always so sure, Sam?"

"Lucifer, don't! Please. No more. Don't!"

"Hmm. Speaking of breaking you. How ironic is it that I can scorche your very soul and you'll come out of that unscathed, but if I tell you right now, right now, that I never loved you, Sammy, that I could never love you, that I was toying with you because it's just so goddamn entertaining, that it'll shatter you to pieces."

That does it.

In a flash, Sam is on his feet, and he's punching the Devil straight in the face. One, two, three times. Muscles tense and impossibly tight, blood boiling, every fabric of his soul vibrating, on fire, screeching. And he's feral, hysterical, a rapid animal with nothing to lose but the will to live. And he's huffing and bellowing and grabbing on the collar of Lucifer's shirt, pulling him close, staring him in the eyes, pleading for a crumb of reassurance, for a hint of tenderness, for a reason to exist.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You're lying. You're lying and I won't believe you. You're lying and you're hiding behind a vessel because you know I'll see it. You know that if I see you, I'll fucking see it. You're lying."

And Lucifer doesn't flinch, doesn't move an inch, and the blood on his nose is not even his. And for a brief moment he looks fond, looks so absolutely enamored it's baffling. And then whatever it is, it passes. He blinks and it's gone and it might have never been there, and he purses his lips and mutters all so matter-of-factly.

"I'm hiding behind a vessel because when I'm not, _you're a mindless infatuated puppet and it bores me_."

Sam lets go and staggers back.

He shakes his head like he doesn't understand, like he couldn't possibly understand. And he's disoriented and nauseous and so lost, so fucking stupid and small and delusional. He feels flayed, struck by lightning, actively being skinned alive. So acutely aware of the gashing gap in his chest, of something ugly and rampant coiling in his guts, consuming his everything. He can't bear it. He can't bear it and he's falling to his knees again but this time, this time because his legs can't carry him. He curls on himself, buries his head between his elbows, and he wails.

"I want to die."

"Aw, do you?"

"Please. I can't take it. Just end it. Please, I want to die, please."

"You're in for a treat then, buddy, because look who's here for you."

And long affectionate fingers bury themselves in Sam's hair, rest at the back of his head and curl tight and possessive. And by the time Sam looks up, squints and blinks to will the clouds of tears away, Lucifer is shifting to address a figure coming from a distance, shrouded in black and the very essence of finality.

"Hey. Took you long enough. I didn't even try to hide him."

The man, the entity, a negative image of birth and life, of reproduction and continuity, in a dark coat and pale skin, inches closer and stills.

"Quite a maze, isn't it, the cage? Your father didn't spare the effort."

"Only the best for his favorite."

And Sam hears it, the bitterness; sees it, the distress, the venom that courses through the Devil and seethes within his grace, only for his father and no one and nothing else. And if Sam had eyes for anyone or anything beside Lucifer, he would have noted the pause: the quietude, the abrupt halt of all that is animate, and how the world is a frozen frame bathed in shades of gray.

But Sam doesn't. Because it's not real. It looks and sounds and feels real, but it's an illusion or a game or punishment or a lesson or a test or torture or anything except real.

He grabs on the hem of Lucifer's shirt, ice-cold dread crawling up his spine, "What-- who..."

And Lucifer pulls him to his side by the nape of his neck, like a cub that would otherwise stray away and needs supervision, needs protection. He murmurs gently, pressing Sam's cheek to his thigh and smoothing his hair, "This is Death. The first and the last, Sammy. The agent of mortality, the Horseman. We raised him together, remember?"

"No..."

"Well, not together together, but you were there, hm? Your brother with the Colt? You with all your pent-up rage and adorable threats, telling me you'll rip my heart out yourself?"

Sam nods faintly, snuggles closer, "Sorry..."

"He's here for you, I think," crimson eyes dart up to Death, "You are, aren't you?"

"I'm here for you, Sam, to take you home."

This is an illusion or a game or punishment or a lesson or a test or torture or anything except real. Sam shakes his head slowly, spits the words like an insult, "You're not real."

And that's all the acknowledgment Sam is willing to give, because Lucifer is touching him now and he's kind and it's fleeting and Sam wants to cry and melt and stop existing before he starts hurting him again, because this isn't close to over and there's no "home" but here and his every nerve is fried and he's on the very edge of a mental breakdown.

"Lucifer, he's not real. Please."

Death, on the other hand, barely raises a curious brow.

"Sammy here is the labor of love. Aren't you, baby?"

Sam's entire being aches at the mere mention. And he is, he is, and he's okay with it and he wants to be loved; he wants sweet nothings and approval and certainty and light and grace and healing. He wants affectionate cruelty and pain that won't break his battered heart and hands, soft and brutal, forging him anew, unwinding his soul and promising the universe with all its glories.

And he doesn't want to play this game. He doesn't want doubts or choices or ghosts from the past. Because Lucifer will push and push and push and he'll play him like an instrument and he'll make him believe it; and then he'll punish him for even entertaining the possibility. Because the very thought of the "outside" is an exercise in futility. Because the last time Sam asked, decades and decades ago, Lucifer had him crawling in a circle for days and days, no purpose and no reprieve, until the skin on his knees and palms and elbows thinned and broke and fell off, until he was dragging bare bones on the floor to keep going, and _that's how futile it is, Sam._

It's not real, and he's choking on the invasive, intrusive thought and misery and guilt trickle out of him in frantic, violent sobs.

"Yes, yes, love you. I love you. Please don't do this to me. Not this. Please, I'm sorry, please..."

"Shush. We have company. Stop whining."

Death sighs impatiently, clasps both hands atop his cane, "Samael. I'm hoping this will be civil."

"I will not fight you, Death. I'm not delusional, nor am I suicidal. But you take him forcefully and he won't believe it, won't accept it, and he'll crack. I _am_ inside him."

"I can see that. Very fine entanglement, impressive in my line of business. And if I were a lesser being, impossible to separate. I understand your end-goal is you're either both in or you're both out. That's not going to happen."

Lucifer purses his lips, and his expression is even and reserved but Sam is staring at him like he's about to lose his fucking mind and he can see the smallest twitches, the dismay, a tinge of infinite sorrow, the flash of restrained fury in otherwise vacant eyes. It terrifies him. It's so real and it terrifies him.

And the grip on Sam's shoulder tightens enough to crush bones. Sam barely winces, and Lucifer hisses, "Figured you'd know your way around a soul. Fortunately for little old me."

"I do. Unfortunately for him though, it's a very delicate affair. But I'm leaving with the boy's soul regardless, and if it's shredded beyond repair and beyond sanity, then I suppose that's that."

"What's in it for you, playing errand-boy for the other Winchester? Why?"

"Let's just say I'm not quite over your last stunt. You never make friends, Samael; it's always you against the world."

"That's not my fucking name."

"Hmm. You'd be wise to watch your tone. I'm about--"

And Sam is hearing the words but he's not registering them, and he's clawing at the gap in his mutilated chest, ripping bits and pieces of flesh out, because this isn't real and it sounds so fucking real and it's an illusion or a game or punishment or a lesson or a test or torture and whatever it is, it's wrecking him. It's stripping him bare and poking at every exposed nerve, every bit of sanity. It's daggers in his guts and searing hot skewers in his brain. He can't breathe.

He shoves his face between Lucifer's legs, because the latter loves to fuck his throat raw and sometimes the gesture works; sometimes it counts for something. And Sam is all wet parted lips and willingness and desolation and he's weeping and nuzzling against the Devil's crotch as if he'll never crave anything more.

"Lucifer, mercy, mercy..."

And because this is routine and nothing new, Lucifer yanks his head away almost gently, twists his fist in Sam's hair to force his eyes up, and he whispers fondly, soft and sympathetic, "Sammy, stay quiet for me, please?"

"Don-don't wanna play no more, don't wanna play, please."

"I know you don't. But you'll be good for me regardless, yes?"

"...yes."

"And if you speak again?"

"We'll grill my tongue and I'll be so sorry."

"Right. How about you build that grill just in case?"

Sam sniffles and breathes a tad bit steadier, "Okay. Any preference, um-- any preference for size?"

"Surprise me."

Sam wipes the tears with the back of his hands and nods. Because this is good, this is distracting; this is familiar and he needs familiar and he's so fucking grateful, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now hush."

And Lucifer blinks and licks his lower lip, and there's an air of melancholic tenderness about him that he doesn't bother concealing anymore. Near-exhausted gaze drifts back to Death and stays.

"You were saying...?"

All things considered, Death has seen a lot worse. He doesn't bat an eye, "Doesn't matter. I'd like to move this along."

"Then why are we still having this conversation?"

"I'm giving best case scenario a fair chance."

"Is there a best case scenario for me, Death? Because as far as I can tell, you'll rip him out and it will rip him apart or, huh, you're asking me to talk him into going with you willingly."

Death hums and throws a neutral analytical glance at the boy on the ground building a grill from scratch, so human and so damaged, half-oblivious to the world, preoccupied with his toy and his coping mechanisms and denial so infallible it will follow him topside if he ever makes it this far in this condition. So no, this won't fly. And Death negotiates.

"Well. I'll hazard a guess that your investment here transcends pettiness. If, for whatever that transpired here and I don't need to know or understand, you have a reason to want the boy alive and sane, I suggest you fix it, Lucifer."

Lucifer rakes a hand through his hair, nervous and incredulous and chuckling like his entire existence is a cruel cosmic joke that he can't seem to ever escape.

He shakes his head, face falling, "I don't want to be here. I- I don't want to be alone. Not again."

"And I don't blame you. But it's happening either way. What will it be, son?"

And Lucifer is silent, and red flickers violent and terrified behind his vessel. And the grace that pulsates around and through and inside Sam's soul tremors and reverberates, freezing and burning and too fucking loud. Sam feels it instantly, and he snaps frightened muddled eyes to the archangel ten feet away and yet right beneath his skin. He doesn't make a sound.

Lucifer goes to him then, crouches right next to him, and the heaviness he carries with him is inconsolable. He taps a finger against a nearly finished cooking grate, and he croons, "Pretty."

And Sam is fingering at the bars absentmindedly, clinging to what he knows for dear life, "Heat plates or charcoal?"

"Neither. You're getting out, Sammy."

"Please, I don't wanna play."

"We're not playing."

"We are, you are. You're bored and this is a new game and I bore you, I bore you, I'm sorry, I'll do better, I promise."

Lucifer smiles, and it's affectionate, it's mournful, it's a roaring ocean of heartache, "Okay, one last game for the road, then. Remember your veto card?"

"Yes..."

"Remember how you never used it because there was always worse, right? Because I could always do worse and you wanted to save it for a very bad day? Right, Sammy?"

"Mhmm..."

"This is it. Use it now. Veto the new game."

Sam stares at him wildly, "No..."

"Then veto lying. I'll give you the truth no matter what. Now, Sammy."

"One question?"

"Yes."

"Did you mean what you said, about us, about me, that you could never lo-"

Lucifer interrupts him, hands cupping his face and drawing it close. He hisses, "Ask the right question."

"I don't wanna know. Lucifer, please please..."

"Now."

"Is Death really here... uh, to-- to take me outside?"

And Sam is panting and sniveling and aching all over because "outside" should only exist in his memories and there's nowhere else for him and he doesn't want it, doesn't remember it, can't imagine it, can't imagine anywhere else but here.

Lucifer breathes him in, and a muscle somewhere twitches, and then he kisses him, aggressive and bruising and desperate and too, too brief, and he whispers between parted lips that always, always want more, "Yes."

Something breaks when Lucifer withdraws, something crumbles when Sam believes him, and it feels like the end of the world.

And the memory of what follows will remain distorted, hazy. Heavy like a nightmare, oppressive and paralyzing. Sam won't remember the details or the order, but he'll remember the terrible keening sounds of his own screams; he'll remember twisting and turning and writhing on the ground, delirious with grief, begging and grabbing and clawing and breaking and _not going anywhere without you I promise please_.

He'll remember Lucifer's light, and the fire so cold, and a whirlwind of rage and terror and loss and holy and beautiful and everything, everything that was and shall always be. True form and true voice, scorching his eyes and rumbling, piercing his ears, when the Devil sheds the vessel and the walls tumble down and his grace recedes. The emptiness and the agony, oh the agony, and how much he wanted to stay.

"Get out."

"GET THE FUCK OUT."

"Sam?"

He'll remember Death telling him he'll forget it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here we are. This has been sort of a passion project and an outlet for me, and it has been super fun and liberating to explore unorthodox themes and go wild. I think I've done everything I wanted to do with this premise, so I'm going to mark this work as complete now. I may add an epilogue at some point to sort of reconcile the Sam in this chapter with post-cage Sam from canon, or just explore recovery very briefly. 
> 
> I really hope this story didn't make anyone uncomfortable (or more uncomfortable than they wish to be) and that I didn't forget to tag for any triggering content. If you have read this far, thank you so much for sticking around. Every type of feedback has meant the world to me and gave me life. Thank you for the support! 
> 
> And to those who commented and reviewed, I genuinely can't thank you enough! You're awesome and you make writing on this platform an awesome experience!
> 
> If, at any point in time, you have thoughts or questions or criticism to share, please don't hesitate! It makes my day!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading!


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